New York dispatch. [volume], March 13, 1887, Image 1

About New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899

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PfflMD BI A. J. WILLIAMSON’S SONS.
M»»BT,«K>tS»» * » »w^^» r **'»*'** w
VOL. XLIL—NO. 22.
Entered at the Post Office at New
N. Y., as Seecad Class Matter.
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am Fandjplayers.
-DAWRAY’S WALDA LAMAR.
reales dnd Curios of an Audience—
*Frcii'm‘An’s Mistake—The Play — Its
' (kirn meters — Young galvini — The
Departure—From Song and
-Dance to Dramatic Art, Etc.
BY JOHN CARBOY.
•‘A portion ©? the audience gathered on last Men
‘ dhy night at the Lyceum Theatre, was a study in
'-nixed color, of human bric-a-brac.
! It was a study which made Dan Frohraan leek as
■lf he had just convalesced from the debilitating
' effects of a ten text power aermou delivered : by : the
*- g.6od deacon Mallory.
At sight of two or three of these first night curios
“ns' they passed in. Hayden wilted and fell upon
Walter Hudson and wept until a flood of tears
i gave the expansive front of bia dress shirt the ap
: pearaDce of a World map of the measles.
•Happily Walter brought him back to'the eon-
* 'keiousness of hie mission as a man and a manager,
• t>y whispering in his ear—“ There’s the handsomest
woman I ever saw."
If there is anything which coutd arouse Brother
Hayden to a condition of lively and smiling vitality
from out of the depths of an apoplectic coma, it
would be the knowledge that a pretty woman was
within his visual range.
As Walter could not give him this knowledge as a
physician would brandy, by a subcutaneous injec
tion—be adopted the next best method—and gave it
♦ him by air pressure through his auricular organ.
So far as this weird portion of the audience wae
concerned, bad its elements, scattered as they were,
here and there through orchestra and balcony, been
collected and grouped upon the platform in a dime
museum its proprietor could have safely congratu
lated himself upon having the finefit array of living
curios ever before placed upon exhibition.
There are always a few examples of this line of
bric-a-brac visible at every first night at what may
be termed the Swell Theatres.
Were some of these social freaks <to put in an ap.
pcftranee in the orchestra or balcony of one ol the
East side theatres, the “boys” would-rise-up-
William-Riley, abont as they did years ago, when
the Count Johannes came forward as Hamlot.
Windsor Frank Murtha’s blonde muetacho would
wilt into the whiteness of age and his'blue eyes turn
green, were one of these first night curios to pass
in, and The People’s Charley Davis would telephone
for a platoon of police in anticipation of • a riot in
the house.
But at your high-toned swell theatres like Wal
lack’s, The Madison Squire, Daly’s and-the Lyceum,
there isn’t the sort of patronage ia the front row of
the third circle which will yell out, “ Hi, Jimmy,
git onto his jags wid the red wiskera.*’
So, at the Lyceum on this particular Monday
night, the curios—these freaks and human bric-a.
brae, escaped the personal torture of having their
presence vocally advertised in quotations from the
clang vocabulary of the time.
They wore morely starod stand their peculiarities
, noted sotlo voce during tho erdre actes.
■ What were these freaks ? Who were they ?
’ What they wero may be easily said. Who they
were it is not my province to reveal.
Some of them were evidently beings of high
•social degree; some were deodorised dudes; a few
were of that class which is best described in the
election returns as “scattering.”
AMONG THE LEADING FEMININE PORTION
of the curio contingent oh thia Monday night, the
occasion being the first performance of the new
play. “ Walda Lamar,” there was a display of high
otoop, Mansard-roof and turrotted hats, that, with
their ornaments, beads and spangios, feathers and
.colors; rising into the light, reminded one of a dis
tant view of the domes and minarets of Constanti
nople, seen through the haze of an autumn sunrise.
Abe Hummell—he of the law—sat behind one of
tho. feminine foundations upon which an immense
four-storiod Alpine hat had been erected, and help
lessly floundered in the awful gloom of its shadow,
and finally wes lost to sight. Ho bad had wrapped
the drapery of the shadow about him. and laid
do wn.to pleasant dreams under his scat. An in
verted waste basket, coyerad with little blue and
maroon crazy-quilt scraps, swayed to and fro in
front of .little Jerome Eddy, and blotted out the
etage fnom.bUsight as effectually as if his eyes had
been converted into leaden bullets.
There was ono, however—a daisy of a defiance to
tho Frobman manifesto. It was a flaming red hat
—blood-red—shot-to war fashion. It was the sight
of that violently red and lofty hat which almost
paralyzed Pan Frohman.
Notably, there were, all told, only fifteen ladies,
in that audience of.say, eight hundred persons,
whose heads-were.uncovered.
If Brother Frobman had requested the dear,
consistent sex to come to his theatre with hats of the
highest altitude known to the milliners’ art, there
wouldn’t have been a hat visible in the house. But
be is a bachelor, and he doesn’t know their disposi
-iion. He should read tho story of tho Iriahman
-driving his pigs to -market.
There was a gorgeously attired space-stuffing re
porter who occupied the seat of the dramatic eritic
rOf a daily paper, wh-o talked loudly between acts to
his companion, the head barkeeper of a down
stown gin-mill, as to HIS opinion of tho play. There
wore a “ sawsioty chappie” and his best girl who
.swapped lies and wagged'their empty heads like tea
<>hop images to the disgust and annoyanco of every
,s>ody within four seats of them.
And half a dozen others equally entitled to places
ib the list of curios and bric-a-brac.
Jsut the play—and the Daurray—what of them ?
t oertaiiily thoy are not included ia the schedule ?
Ob, do. “Nothing so small iaihoir composite,
.good my ; i3. d.”
And in reference to this, tho princ’jjal business of
&bo night, ; l will coma to Hecuba.
,Hecuba is always in order.
WALDA LAMAR
fs of the French, very Frencby. There is the old
time melo-drajpatic flavor in its composition,
whieh.commends it sweeetly to the sense of those
who delight ia the highly seasoned article, and who,
so long as their appetite is gratified rarely trouble :
tkemsel-xes as to the .nicety or freshness of the in
gredientc.
It is in fact the drauw&zation from a French aoyel
—by Henri .Wprtheimber, ;Wbe has accomplished his
task cleverly—although Jw has, especially in the
third act, made a materia! diversion from the plot i
of tho original story. The argument of the play in.
volves the love of an aetres-i -a young Russian girl
/—for a nobleman; his abandonof her on pre-
of visiting his mother, who asserts is dan-
ill-wben in reality be is. the eve of
his betrothad; the discovery ,of hie per
jSdy by actress; a ease or circaevi.
the subsidence of a woman’s hate in the presence of
the misery which that hate has created, and then
tho reunion of the woman and the man she adores.
As with Camille, it is the story of a liaison— minus
the finale of Pbtisis. It has but one positive and
dramatic situation, and of the eighteen characters
forming its cast, it has but two having any distinc
tive dramatic value. Those are Paul de St. Germain
and Walda Lamar. There are, aside irom these,
only three others—sketches of character —worthy
of mention, as having place in the recital of the
story. One of these is Romanville—a comedian of
the Odeon—which, did M. Pigott, its representative,
understand its nature, might be given an artistic
prominence; the second is Andre Latour, which is
made notable by the occasional brightening touches
of comedy work given it by Mr. Sothern; tho third
is that of Adele Regnier, 4n which Miss Adeline
Stanbcpe has but the opportunity of a scene in one
act for the display of her talent, although it is this
woman whose hatred of her rival is the cause of re
voaling to Walda the falsity of her‘lover and the
fact that he has left her to marry tho young girl to
whom he is affianced.
This young girl, Louts© de Valdaure, is
ONE OF THOSE INNOCENT WEAKLINGS
common in stage literature, for whose presence
there -is no particular reason, and whose disap
tpearauce from the scene is scarcely noticed. Miss
Enid Leslie impersonated this nebulous being with
a commendable amount of vacuous inertia. What
becomes of her after the second act is known only
to the Lord and the author, and it isn’t likely either
of these will bo asked for any information concern
ing her fate. Life is too short to bother about tri
fles. The fate of the malicious, plotting. Regnier is
made known in a vague speech by Bomanville, to
the effect that she has been horribly burnod,
through her skirts having caught fire while she was
playing'upon the Gymnnse stage.
The action of the play is in the first act alow and
has little interest save in tbe scene between Wald a
and Regnier; in the second act lies the entire
strentb' Of the play, and the third act, like the dea
con's old' One-horse chaise, drops all to pieces at
once. It merely means that a woman’s spirit of
revenge, weakened by an infusion of pity and fur
ther diluted with tears, is changed to an all-trust
ing love for the noble and suffering hero of her liai
son—her only lover.
I have said that there were but two persons in the
cast' of any special importance—Paul de St. Ger
main and Walda Lamar.
They come high, but we must have them. No
drama of the French school is perfect without
them. Having them, let us see wbat they amount
to socially and in their relations to each other.
Paul de St. Germain as he is presented and taken
at his best, is a liar; he is treacherous, weak
minded, selfish and bombastic by turns. Yet he is
a nobleman and a hero. True, he winds up his
career in tbe last act repentant, declares Walda to-be
the only woman he ever loved, embraces her and
swears to marry her as soon as he returns as a hero
from the battlefield.
Claude Melnotte goes through substantially the
same sort of heroic repentance, but there is some
thing of manhood in bis character, loyalty in his
atonement and sincerity in his love.
That is tbe sort of a hero St. Germain is—not.
MR. SALVINI.
in liis impersonation of the character is solemnly
and heavily tragic and at times oppressively and
automatically mechanical in speech and action.
There were evidences of a tutelage from the elder
salvini in his measured stride, in the pitching for
ward of his head and in the constant rolling of his
eyes upward. At times he almost suggested the
presence of a Roman gladiator, ill at ease in a
modern dress suit.
Nevertheless, he has a robust, manly presence,
there is much that is acceptable in his efforts; there
is visible a sincerity of purpose, the evidence of
study and an ambition to be worthy the name he
bears. As yet he has not acquired the one great es
sential in tbe art of acting—that of forgetting him
self and converting h s personality into that of the
character be represents—of feeling rather than fish
ing for the meaning of the text and nature of the
part. His intellectual resources and that broader,
more comprehensive knowledge of dramatic art
which experience will bring him, will teach him
that acting is not merely a matter of shrugs,
spasms and “make up.” -
Miss Dauvray as Walda Lamar was something in
tho way of a revelation, following, as this “ new de
parture” did, the milk-and-water heroine of Bron
son Howard’s “One of Our Girls;” her vain effort
in his inane and pointless “Met by Chance” and
her trial of Peg Woffington—her performance of
Walda was like an unexpected flash of lightning
from a clear sky.
I overheard one of the full dress curios, as he was
passing out at the close of the second act in search
of his constitutional clove, say to hia companion :
“Bob, them critics that’s been damning Dauvray
with faint praise, must have heard something drop
just now—eh?”
* Yaas, they did—the act drop.”
Her impersonation of this Russian girl, free and
unhampered in tbe exposition of her nature, the
strength of her passions, the simple confidence in
the honor of the man she loved, and her awful and
implacable thirst for vengeance when he had aban
doned her, was more than a revelation.
It was a flash of artistic effect which lightened up
this stage as it had never been lightened before.
And by a little woman with a physique one would
imagine scarcely equal to the task of dancing a jig.
Bnt this-same supple little body played Peg Wof
flng.ton, and wasn't her jig in that as saucy and
lively a jig as ever a Peg Woffington threw off from
her high French heels and pointed toes ?
And—l won’t say how long ago it was—didn’t she
lo the song and dance and all that sort of tomboy
work which has been tho stock in trade and made
the fortune of Lotta—who has no more idea of sen
timent than old lady Crabtree has of generosity ?
Away back in those years I saw tho little Cali
; lornia Nugget or Nell “do her variety tip”—in
iomevvacnous play, tho name of which I forgot—
tnd really I do not think that now, as the Dauvray,
, she is any the less lively, or that she makes her
‘ #teps any slower.
From jig dancing, or from the maudlin, namby
! pamby comedy gush of Bronson Howard—who
: ought to know bettor than write such slush—to such
; a strong and demonstrative character as Walda La
i mar. is not a rovelation; it is an additional proof of
' the truth of the oft-repeated assertion that “ when
a woman starts in to have her own way, no one
can tell where she will stop.”
Dauvray started with a jig and a banjo; she has
gained tho hight of French melodrama and a dagger
—and she has no i lea of ending at this point.
lam only sure of one thing in this regard. She
will not go backward to Bronson Howard.
Ido not mean to say that this drama of “ Walda
Lamar” ia perfect ly any means, or that the char
acter of its heroine is entirely fitted to the capacity
of Miss Dauvray. But Ido say that she has made
it fit her remarkably well.
It is as if she had taken a ready-made dress sev
eral sizes too large for her little form.
Taken it as Dodson and Fogg did Mrs. Bardoll’s
case—"on spec.”
And then holding it up to her critical friends said:
“See this—won’t I look stunning in it ?”
“Fit you? Bah, it’s big enough for a woman
double your size. You’ll look like a guy in it.”
“ Like a guy, eh ? Willi? That’s all you know
about tho business. Como and see me in it and we’Jl
see who knows best.”
She gets in her fine work on this thing. She
makes it fit, she puts it on, she wears it proudly.
But then up come her hypercritical cynical
frjends.
admit that there is something of a fit, that
it gives .a becoming grace to the form, but
Ah, : tha£ ever omnipresent loophole—But.
But ho.Wfijauch better it fitted the woman for
wncai it w£??x?rigiDa’Jy made I
Theo she co.mts back at them with:
“ Bu(t it wasn’t originally made for anybody in
particular. It was to sell. I bought it,
being tho flrsf comer took a fancy to it. Now i
bow do j’ou know it We Sited anybody else
bettor ihay !f m ?>'
NEW YORK. SUNDAY. MARCH 13, 1887.
No doubt Walda Lamar
MIGHT HAVE FITTED SOME OTHER ACTRESS
BETTER
than it fits Miss Dauvray. But inasmuch as no
other person has tried it on, further argument is
useless. She has invested the character with a
quality of strength, with an expression of grace, of
artistic finish and a command of resources, both
mental and physical, which few, if any, imagined
she possessed.
There was visible in this example of her varied
talent but little of the mannerism which has hith
erto been notable and apparently Inseparable from
her acting.
Because I have written these words of deserved
praise of Miss Dauvray’s performance of Walda La
mar, Ifion’t want some a'ssinine fellow to write a
note asking me what Clara Morris would do with
the part.
I know that she would play it after her methods,
and that the waits between acts would consume
more time than the acting of tho play itself, and
that there would be no certainty of th© night’s per
formance ever being finished.
I know that the Dauvray would plow through it
if the stage were encircled by a cyclone, with an
earthquako and a dynamite explosion underneath.
Her energy, her persistence, her evident desire
and determination to use all tbe means at her com
mand to promote the better interests of dramatic
art, have been sufficiently commented on by the
press.
Suppose the press devotes something of its criti
cal space hereafter to her claims as an artiste.
In Walda Lamar she has given occasion for such
comment.
Do the little, hard-working woman justice.
THE
STORY OF A FAMOUS CRIME.
The Mnrd*cr ot Mr. Ftatrlclc
O’Connor.
HOW THE CRIMINALS WERE CAUGHT.
Bravery of fha Woman and Cowardice
of the Man.
A curious application at the Southwark (London;
Felice Court brings to mind again wbat might al
most be called a famous crime. A woman came to
seok adyice ae to the best way of making good her
claim to be a daughter of O’Connor, who was mur
dered by the Mannings in Bermondsey in 1849.
The applicant's mother has just died, at the age of
eighty-six, and on her death-bed confessed that
O'Connor was the father of her children. This con
fession gives the children certain expectations, and
they wish to trace the history of O’Connor, and to
have access to reports of the trial. The magistrate
suggested a visit to the British Museum for these
researches In ancient history; while he incidentally
remarked that he perfectly well remembered the
trial. The application at the Police Court has led
to an article in the Daily News, in which the story
of the Mannings is retold:
THE MURDER,
On the 9th of August, 1849, Mr. Patrick O’Connor,
an elderly man, who had been a gauger in the serv
ice of the customs, was missed from his lodgings.
Search was made for him high and low without ef
fect, until, on the 17th, his body was found in the
back kitchen of an empty house in Minver plaee,
Bermondsey. The house had been occupied by a
Mr, and Mrs. Manning, known to have been ac
quaintances of O'Conner, and they had left it
abruptly soon after the fact of his disappearance
had been noised abroad.
Immediately after the murder Mrs. Manning had
visited O’Connor’s lodgings—by no means for the
first time—and, as it was afterward ascertained, had
carried off a considerable amount of railway scr p
and all the money she could find. She returned to
her house and remained there for two or three days,
during one of which the police made a cursory in
spection of the place, under the belief that the
missing man was most likely to be found there.
On the 12th. under the assumed nameof Mrs. Smith,
she fled with her plunder to Edinburgh. On the
17tb, as already stated, the house was searched by
the police and the discovery of the body made sus
picion a certainty. O’Connor’s remains were found
buried under one of the kitchen flagstones in a
grave about a foot deep, filled with quicklime. The
body was lying face downward, with the legs
doubled up and tied tn the haunches. Three days
after “Mrs. Smith’’ was apprehended in a private
lodging-house in the Scottish capital, through tbe
instrumentality of a stoca broker to whom she had
offered O’Connor s scrip for sale. In eight days
more her husband was in the bauds of justice. The
pair had separated in their flight and he was tracked
to Jersey. He did not long keep their secret. While
his wife was stoutly protesting her innocence—
which, by the way, she did to the last—he made a
statement charging her with the crime, It was to
the effect that, having induced O'Connor to come
to dinner, she asked him to go down siairs to wash
ids bands, and, as he reached tbe passage leading to
the kitchen, she put one arm around bis neck and
shot him with the other. His gra<vo was ready and
the rest did not take long.
THE TRIAL.
The trial commenced at the Old Bailey on the 26th
of October, 1849. It continued over two daye. and
it filled in with copious and crushing circumstan
tiality tbe outline already sketched. Minning had
been a railway guard; his wife had been a lady s
maid. They had been married but two years, and
when they stood together in tbe dock the man was
but thirty years of age and the woman twenty
eight There could be no doubt of the nature of
the relations between O'Connor and Mrs. Manning,
nor ef the fact that Manning was perfectly well
aware of them. It is hardly too much to say that
the murderers had neglected no precaution that
might connect them with the crime. Manning had
consulted a medical student who lodged with them
as to the effects ol laudanum in stupefying a man,
and had observed that Mr. O’Connor was a person
of considerable property. He bad also requested
his lodger’s opinion on the probable fate of a mur
derer in the next world. When they bad completed
their preparations for tbe deed, they gave tbe lodger
notice to quit. He leit on the 28th of July. Then
they bought the lime and a crowbar, and Manning
was very indignant with tbe man who brought tbe
crowbar home, because it was not wrapped up.
Later on, Mrs. Manning bought a shovel. While
O’Connor’s grave lay waiting for him, he saw it
more than once in his visits to the kitchen to wash
bis hands, when taking dinner or tea in the house.
Mrs. Manning, in reply to his questions, said tbe
landlord was repairing the drains. When all was
ready, there was another attempt to get him to din
ner, but at first it failed.
A second invitation was more successful, and on
the 9th of August ha left home to dine with his
“Maria,” whoso invitation he had happened to
show to two friends that afternoon. A little later,
on tbe same day, he was seen again; but after that
none but the Mannings saw him alive. There was
no dinner waiting for him at Minver Plaee, only the
bullet, the crowbar, and the grave. He was once
more taken down stairs to wash his hands, and he
never returned.
ACCUSING EACH OTHER.
As the trial proceeded the wretched creatures,
through their counsel, bandied accusations one
the other. The woman declared that the man
Kvas the murderer, but the man had the last word,
in a long confession published after the execution.
In this he laid the whole blame of the conception
upon his wife, and said that rage, rather than cu
pidity. was her original motive. O’Connor had ir
ritated her by refusing to lodge in the house, and
she said she would have her revenge if she were
hanged for it. Manning's statements are only to be
taken for what thev are worth, for he was certainly
a most consummate sneak and scoundrel. He de
clares that he pointed out the risks of the crime,
and then its wickedness.
“I asked her what would become of her soul if
she committed an act of murder?’ to which she
said, “We have no soul; alter we are dead we ar©
like lumps of clay, and there ia no more thought of
us.”
When O’Connor came in to his last dinner, or
semblance of a dinner, the dish-covers were on the
table, but there was nothing beneath them. He at
first declined to go down stairs, but tbe murderess
told him that Miss Massey, a lady he supposed he
was going to meet, was “very particular” about
clean hands, and then he went. Manning, who was
in his own bedroom, then beard the report of a pis
tol, and his wife came upstairs and said:
“ Thank God, I have made him all right at last!”
“She insisted on my going down stairs. Upon
my reaching the kitchen I found O’Connor resting
on the grave. He moaned; and, as I never liked
him well, I battered in his skull with a ripping
chisel. ’
When the woman went out in the evening to
search O’Connor's lodgings, she left Manning alone
with the body. But he could not remain in the
house, and he went into the garden, and sat on the
wall, and smoked a pipe with a neighbor. The pair
evidently lost faith in each other from the moment
of the crime. The woman ran away at last, without
telling Manning when she was going, or where. She
was fiercely defiant in the dock after conviction,
and declared that she bad not had a fair trial. They
were both sentenced to be banged. The man did
not say a word; the woman snatched a handful of
roe Irom the front of th.® dock and threw it among
ibe barristers, exclaiming:
/•Bag©, shameful Engiaod J'*
smliss art
THE LAST SCENE. ]
On Wednesday, the 14th of November, 50,000 per
sons waited outside Horsemonger Lane jail for the
last scene. The crowding was fearful, and from
time to time tho injured Were dragged out of the
crush with ropes. Just before the culprits were
pinioned, the woman consented to sao her husband
and speak to him—for the first time since the crime.
Two warders sat between them. He leaned over
and spoke to tier in an imploring accent, and they
both rose, shook hands, and kissed each other sev
eral times. Manning was a coward to the last, and
during the pinioning asked Calcraft if he should
suffer much pain. Not if?ije kept still, he was told.
Tho woman nearly fainted'at the sight of the hang
man. and on recovering shp asked the surgeon to
bandage her eves, which was done. In this way
she was led to the scaffold, passing over her own
grave—like O’Connor’s, lined with quicklime. It
was an agonizingly long journey, for the whole pro
cession had to mount by a narrow staircase to tbe
very roof. Th© man appeared first and then the
woman. The 50,000 spectators received them in
perfect silence. As they stood side by side, both
blindfolded, ho held out his pinioned band toward
her, and one of tbe turnkeys guided it to her e.
Then the drop fell. Mrs. Manning was hanged in
black satin. Black satin has never been in fashion
since.
She Cried “Rats,” “Rats.”
A. Oelcstial Laundryman’s Ili
bernian Ooolc.
A Novel Compact wh’ch Broke Up in a
Fight-
A Celestial laundry man was the complainant in
an assault and battery case which was tried in
Justice Rhinehart’s court ia Williamsburg last
Thursday afteriioou and tho defendant was au Irish
woman.
The case created a good deal of amusement for
the spectators on account of the novel compact
■which existed between tho litigants and the break
• log off of which culminated in a fight, in which tho
Chinaman, according to his own doleful tale, told in
very good English, got badly worsted.
•CHARLEY WING
is the name of the laundry man and bls establish
ment is at No. 346 North Nin,th street, and the de
fendant is Mrs. Teddy a buxom widow.
From the testimony given by Mr. Wing it would ap
pear that Mrs. Brannigan about three months ago
cultivated his acquaintance in his laundry, where
she went to get some points in ironing.
“ She chucked me under the chin.” said Charley
in broken English, "and said that I was a nice
Chinaman, different from the other heathens that
would not be let into this country. I said she wrs
a fine woman, different from the California Irish
women, and that I would disclos© to her tho secret
of ironing. She caught my queque and asked if tbe
China women wore ones like them. I said thev did.
She asked how a Chinaman could be distinguished
from a woman, and I told her. Bho laughed and
chucked me again under the chin.
“ She came in next day again and brought some
soiled clothes which she wanted to have lauudried.
She said she bad no money to spare, but that she
would do my cooking and bouse cleaning to make
up lor the washing of the clothes. She was
SVCH A NICE WOMAN
I consented. She said she had only her own and
her little boy’s clothes to have lauudried, but after
the second week she had a whole lot of women a
underwear and skirts. I told ser that it was too
much, but she said that it was all right, that she had
some visitors at hor house who would depart the
following week. Her friends not only seemed to
remain with her, but they increased iu number to
such an extent that up most Of iny time
washing clothes for them. I talked and reasoned
with her to no purpose and then protested, but she
threatened to use iny own irons on me. She used
to taste what she was cooking every few minutes,
until by tbe time the meal was placed on tbe table
for me, there would be little of the original quantity
left.
“ Two women came into my place last week and
left baskets of clothes with me and said that it was
all right, that they were friends of Mrs. Brannigan’s,
and that they would pay her as they had been doing
right along.
THEY POKED ME IN THE RIBS
and said they heard that I was in love with her. I
got mad and threw their clothes into the street.
They broke all the panes of glass in the window. If
I knew them I would have them arrested. When I
told Mrs, Brannigan she said that she dil not know
who they were, but I did not believe her.
“ I told hor that I wanted to withdraw from the
agreement, but she said she would sue me if I did
so, and I was afraid. 1 told her on Monday last
that I wanted some Chinese cooking done. I got
her four skinned squirre.s, and she put them in
the oven and roasted them. Next day I gave her
four more, und told her to take off the skins her
self. She cried:
“ • RATS ! RATS 1’
“.and then threw them at me. I told her she should
cook them or our agreement would be broken, but
she wouldn’t do it and called me dirty names. I
ordered her out, and she struck me on ths head
with a flat-iron and kicked mo and struck me with
her hands.”
“ I wouldn’t cook rats for tbe baste, an* that’s
what the matter is,” said Mrs. Brannigan. "He
thought to come his Chinese thricks over me, but
I’m a dacent woman; an’ then to get rid of me, he
gave me rats to akin an’ cook. I'f he could come
his other thricks over me it would be all right.”
Mrs. Brannigan was put under SIOO bonds to keep
the peace.
The Confidenee Game.
IT DIDN’T WORK_VERY WELL.
A young man, of Jewish cast of face, named Lewis
Hoves, obtained $8 by the confidence game. Henry
Ditman Is janitor of the house No. 172 West Ninety
fifth street. His landlord, Philip Houseman, lives
next door. Ditman said the prisoner was around
his place three days. He told him his father had
died recently and left him $69,4)00,. and he intended
to Invest a part of it in real estate. As he had
partly made up his mind to purchase No. 172, the
janitor, believing he was to have a new boss, very
obligingly showed him tho several flats. This was
Wednesday. Thursday night he called again on
Ditman, and said he had mad© up his mind to buy
the corner house, for which ho wa* also janitor.
Friday morning he made another call and saw him
and his landlord, Mr. Houseman. Hoves had a big
paper with him, which looked very business like,
and he again asked to see the flats up-stairs. At
every flat he impressed on the minds of the tenants
that he would be their landlord. They then came
down-stairs and found an express wagon at the
door. He went to it, returned, and said be had got
some hardware. There was $7.80 to pay on it; he
had no change, but had a check in his pocket, which
be would get cashed in a few minutes. Ditman at
first demurred—he had a family to support Be
lieving that it would, be the better policy to keep in
with his new boss, he let him have SB. Hoves then
went to the express wagon, said something to tbe
driver, who drove off. Tho fellow then returned
and wont up-stairs alone, and called on each tenant,
and said he had just purchased the house and tried
lo collect the rents. Hoves told Ditman that he
had just bought the house, and that was why he let
him have the money. The prisoner was up three
days trying to make a bargain with Mr. Houseman.
He did not seo Mr. Houseman till twenty minutes
after he had given the SB. He was then talking
about coming up next day to make a deposit of
SI,OOO.
Philip Houseman said he lived at No. 170 West
Ninety-fifth street. Mr. Ditman was janitor of his
house next door. The defendant came with a gen
tleman to purchase the house next door, but
didn’t.
Cross-examined—The fellow.didn't tell him that
he was going to be the.agent for a party that was
going to purchase it. He went over to Brooklyn
with Hoves, after his janitor told him he had beat
him out of SB. He did not borrow $3 of the jani
tor's money to treat the prisoner, but he spent
about as much as that on him. because he said he
had only a check with him and had written to a
friend for $1,600.- He went around with him and
treated him.
Defendant said a friend named Bernstein had
sent him up to negotiate for the purchase of this
house. Ho had known him for years. They met in
the Morton House, on Union Hquare, and he said if
you see anything good to buy I’il- give you five per
cent, commission to take care of it.
Mr. Houseman, recalled, said he thought the feb
low was “crooked,” aud went over to Brooklyn
with him to see where he was to raise the money.
Before that he said he had a house and lot on Hes
ter street, but he hadfordered the tenants out and
was going to build on it. He wanted him to show
it; he said no, let them go over to Brooklyn and see
his friend. They went to Nineteenth street, Brook
lyn; then to No. 293 Tenth avenue; then to No. 115
North Fifth street, Williamsburg, looking for this
friend of his that was to put up the money. But
never a friend in all their journeying did they meet,
and he caused his arrest.
Ralph Harris, of No. 44 Baxter street, and Simon
Harris, of No. 69 Division street, said the young
man was a decent, honest peddler.
John Wyckoff said the prisoner was introduced to
him by a gentleman. He told him he had been left
$60,000 by his father, and he had property on Hes
ter street, and wanted to buy some property on
Tenth avenue.
“ Did he get any money from you V‘ askod the
Court.
••No; 1 did not put any stock in him,” said Mr.
Wyckoff.
Hoves was sent to the Penitentiary for six months.
MONS. BOULAILD’S ESCAPE.
The Quarrel Over a Game of
Billiards.
The Murder of Charles Cassette.
Circumstantial Evidence which Pointed
to An Innocent Man.
The Basket Found in the Bush Which
Brought the Crime Heme.
When the elder Cassette died, he left his son,
Charles, a large fortune and a handsome villa at St.
Denis, in the suburbs of Paris, Franco. Two years
later, Charles Cassette married, and, after a year of
happiness, lost his wife, who left an infant son.
Charles's aunt, Madame Fermat, came to take care
of his household affairs, and Charles soon resumed
the habite of his bachelor life.
There was a Monsieur Groult, an attractive and
kindly roan, around whom many friends, chiefly
young men, gathered. Monsieur Groult’s rooms
were on tho Rue Prony. He was wealthy, had am
ple leisure and was fond of receiving his friends in
an informal way of an evening. Sometimes they
amused themselves with billiards and sometimes
with cards. Before his marriage, Charles Cassette
was a very frequent visitor at Monsieur Groult’s,
and after his wife’s death he resumed his former
intimate relations with that gentleman, which had
been in part suspended during his brief married
life. Among the most frequent visitors at Monsieur
Groult’s, was Monsieur Boniard. who also resided
on the Rue Prony. Monsieur Boulard was about
thirty-five, somewhat ostentatious, and of a very
flcry temper.
On the evening of September 12th, 1867, some
half-dozen gentlemen were at Monsieur Groult s.
Among them were Charles Cassette and Monsieur
Boniard. They were playing billiards, and Mon
sieur Boulard lost his temper over the game. It
was well known among his associates that Monsieur
Boulard had been iusiduously paying court to a
certain Madame Lazaro, whose husband bad repu
diated her. It was also known that there was a
rival in the person of a Monsieur Ampese, who was
richer than Monsieur Boulard, but neither so young
nor so good-looking. When Monsieur Boulard los-i
his temper, as already said, Charles Cassette,
thoughtlessly, but in a spirit of fun, remarked:
•* Ah, well. Monsieur Boulaad is to be excused,
perhaps. It may bo that a rival has got ahead of
him."
AN ASSAULT.
Boulard grew furious with passion and aimed a
blow with the cue at the head of Charles. It missed
the spot aimed at, but came down with some lor co
on Charles’s shoulder.
Charles, who was remarkable for his good-nature
and self-possession, did not resent the blow, but
stood with bis cue to the ground, quietly puffing
the cigar smoke from hie mouth, withdrawing it for
a moment to say:
“ An assassin, eb ?"
This doubly incensed Boulard, who used violent
and abusive words, and would have renewed the as
sault if Monsieur Groult had not interposed, say
ing:
•‘Monsieur Boulard, as you well know, gentle
men who visit me here come with the express un
derstanding that under no circumstances whatever
shall there be any gambling under my roof."
Monsieur Boulard bridled his wrath and quitted
the party, breathing words of vengeance upon
Charles, against whom he hurled vituperation and
curses.
“He will challenge you," said Monsieur Groult,
“and you must decline to fight. Everybody knows
that before your marriage you fully established
your reputation for courage in half a dozen affairs
of honor, and that you are perhaps the best swords
man in Paris. Remember that yoa can no more
place your life in jeopardy in so foolish away, for
it is another's now. Your child has thegfirst claim
upon you, and for his sake you must decline firmly
this challenge, if Boulard sends it."
A CHALLENGE.
Boulard did send It, and Charles declined it. Bou
lard had immediately informed Madame Lezare of
what he had done and the cause of it. She exhorted
him, for her sake, to recall it, and made all kinds of
promises; but Boulard was inexorable, swearing
that he would have the life of young Cassette, Now
Madame Lazaro was perfectly aware of Charles'
wonderfnl skill with the sword, and foreboded the
result to Boulard; for she knew what Boulard didn't
know—namely/that Monsieur;Ampere, his rival, had
taken himself off, and purchased the smiles and ca
resses of a pretty actress at the Gaiete. Consequently
she did not wish to lose Boulard, to whose terms she
was ready to agree as the best that offered.
That afternoon Madame Lazare, who was greatly
excited at the thought of losing Boulard, for she was
just then in great pecuniary straits, conceived the
idea of visiting Charles Cassette, and beseeching
him not to accept the challenge. She started by
rail to St. Denis.
MADAME LAZARE’S VISIT.
When she reached the depot, Paul Mechain, a
friend o' Charles, was awaiting a train for the city.
He was present at the rooms of Monsieur Groult
the previous evening and, anticipating that a chal
lenge would result, went to see his friend, and left
disappointed because he wouldn t fight He recog
nized Madame Lazare, whom he knew by sight
only, and wondering what could have brought her
thither, watched her movements and saw her go to
the villa occupied by Cassette.
Mechain returned to Paris and on quitting the
train met Boulard.
“Ah, Boulard,” said Mechain, “I have just seen a
friend of yours."
“ Who Is that ?" Boulard asked.
“ Madame Lazare," was the reply.
“Where did you see her ?" was the next question.
“Going into the villa of Charles Cassette at St.
Denis, about half an hour ago," he answered.
Boulard grew scarlet with passion and exclaimed:
“ That accounts for it! I have just been to see
■ her and I was told that she was sick with a severe
headache."
Mechain laughed sardonically and bade him
adien.
Boulard rushed to the depot, close at hand, and
took the first train to St. Denis. It was himself,
then, that Caasctte referred to as the rival ahead of
Boulard.
ASSASSINATED.
On the morning of September 14, many In Paris
were shocked At the announcement that Monsieur
Charles Cassette had been murdered at his villa at
St. Denis, the previous night.
The evening ot September 13 was very warm. The
air was sultry and there were murmurings of thun
der in the distance. Madame Fermat testified at
the investigation by the Judge of Instruction (the
coroner), that a lady called upon Charles late in the
afternoon, and, after a stay of about fifteen or twen
ty minutes, departed. From her description, it was
evident subsequently that the lady was Madame
Lazare. Charles then retired to his library and soon
afterward ate a light dinner. He told his aunt that
he was going to be busy with his accounts and re
turned after dinner to hia library.
The library opened upon a terrace, beyond which
was the garden. There wore two windows in the
end of the room and one in the side, and Charles's
library table stood so that when he sat at it his back
was to the side window and within four feet of it.
All the windows were open. As a groom was pass
ing to the stables in the rear of the dwelling soon
after daybreak on the morning of September 14, he
observed that the lights were burning in tho library
and that the windows were open.
Ascending the terrace, ho looked into the room
and saw Charles Cassette lying forward upon the
table. Entering the room, he saw a pool of blood
upon the chair and floor. Ho alarmed the house
hold and it was discovered that Charles was dead
and cold, having received a fatal wound in the back.
Nothing in the room appeared to have been dis
turbed. A safe in a vault in the further end of the
room was open, but it was not known that anything
was missing.
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.
The police worked vigorously on the case.
Mechain informed Monsieur Groult of the visit of
Madame Lazare to the villa, and Monsieur Groult
felt it his duty to inform the authorities of this
fact. Madame Lazare was sent for and questioned
by the Judge of Instruction. Then the fact q! the
quarrel at Monsieur Groult’s house came out, and
also the challenge and Charles’s refusal to fight.
Next, Mechain communicated to the police his meet
ing with Boulard as he was returning from St.
Denis, and his wrath’at hearing that Madame Lazare
had vjsited the villa.
This led to inquiries which disclosed the pres
ence of Boulard at St. Denis on the night of the
murder. One Debelee, a blacksmith, said that he
saw a man answering the description of Boulard
watching the villa and that, wondering what it
could mean, he set himself to watch the man. At
dusk the man climbed the fence and walked up the
side of the grounds, where trees and bushes grew,
toward the dwelling. He thought that perhaps the
man was a lover of one of the domestics, and that
any how it was none of his business, so he departed.
Boulard was arrested and vigorously questioned.
He admitted having been at St. Denis and also that
be had climbed the fence and gone toward the
house. He believed that Madame Lazare was there,
and that this explained Cassette’s remark at Mon
sieur Groult’s that a rival might have got ahead of
him. On reaching the villa, he saw Charles Cassette
seated in his library, writing, and that satisfied him
that he must be mistaken. Then be quitted the
place and returned to Paris.
This explanation was unsatisfactory, and Boulard
was held lor the murder of Charles Cassette.
A PEDDLER’S BASKET.
The villa was not more than two hundred yards
from the river Seine. On the afternoon of teptom
ber 17, three boys,amusing themselves on the bank,
found a basket hidden away among some bnuljoa’
It was a square, flat basket and contained hour
glasses, weather glasses, pen wipers, grotesque pa
per weights and small wares of that description, i
OFFICE, NO. 11FRMPORT ST.
The boys covered up the basket, went to the police
station and informed the authorities. An officer
went with them for the basket, but it was gone.
The officer cuffed the boys’ ears and swore it was a
trick they had played upon the police, but the boys
solemnly averred the truth of their story. This oc
. currence was soon bruited in the neighborhood and
then an old man. who sold pigeons and barnyard
fowls, came tremblingly to the police with the bas
ket in his possession. He said that he was near by
and saw the boys examining something in the bush.
When they wore gone, he went and found the bas
ket, which he carried homo, covering it with his
blouse.
WAS THIS THE ASSASSIN ?
When the wide awake detectives beard of the find
ing of the basket, they directed their attention to
it. It was evidently the property of a peddler and
had been hidden away for some purpose. Was it
possible that the peddler had had anything to do
with the crime at the villa, for which Monsieur
Boulard was under arrest ?
Inquiries were set on foot to And out the owner
of the basket. No one, so far as could be ascertain
ed, bad seen any person about St. Denis during the
day preceding the murder, carrying such a basket.
The inference was that the owner of it had coma
from Paris and probably had not reached Bt. Denis
before duak. These peddlers not uufrequently
started on foot from Paris after purchasing their
wares and made their way to some place twenty or
even thirty or forty miles distant before they began
to offer their goods for sale. The detectives exam
ined the wares to see whether they could obtain a
hint as to where they had been purchased. They
were articles of a nature, however, which might
have been bought in a hundred different places.
When they were ready to give up the inquiry for the
peddler, a question put to one ot the porters at the
railway station at Bt. Denis brought out the fact
that, by the first train which went into Parison the
morning when the crime was discovered, a person
age of a noteworthy description had taken passage.
A DESCRIPTION MATCHED.
“He was about five feet high.” said the porter,
“and had on an ordinary gray blouse. He wore a
skull cap and very long hair, which hung in heavy
curls down his back. His lacs was shav-n, with the
exception of a mustache, and that was of uncommon
length, falling down at tach side, below his chin.
One thing in particular I noticed, was that, over the
right shoulder, crossing the back and chest, and
meeting under the le:t arm about the waist, was
a broad leathern strap with a hook at the end."
“This is our man without doubt,” said one of
tho officers, “ and we must look lor him in Paris.”
They looked for him in Paris for three days, with
out success. Finally, one night on the Boulevard,
St. Germain, there came strutting along a short
man with long curly hair well greased, and a long
mustache waxed and twisted. This figure attracted
the attentiou of Thiboumory, one of the detectives,
who had been on the caso at St. Danis. True, the
man was dressed more like a swell than a peddler.
He wore a tall, shiny hat. asuxtottt of broadcloth,
trousers of bright blue, with a light stripe, and
patent-leather boots. An elegant scarf was about
his throat, and light kid gloves encased his hands,
in one of which beheld a cane. In company with
this splendid creature was a tall woman of vast
proportions, dressed in a gaudy silk gown and
highly adorned bonnet. Thiboumory followed this
couple. They crossed the Pont St. Germain, and
went to the Rue St. Antoine, where they entered
a wine shop kept by ono Stemler. The officer
waited for them, and traced them to a house on the
Rue Ste. Marguerite, the door of which the woman
opened with a latch-key.
AN ARREST.
Thiboumery was at a loss. He eould not get out
of his bead the impression that this was the man
who had left St. Denis by the early train for Paris,
and the morning of the discovery of Charles Cas
sette s murder; he hastened after Pigalle, his asso
ciate, and consulted him. They returned together
to the Rue Ste. Marguerite and waited until day
break. Soon afterward the door of the house was
opened and the gentleman of the previous night
appeared.
Pigalle showed no hesitation, and going up to the
man he clapped him on the shoulder and said :
“My gay little friend, I and my companion here
think we knew you.”
The man started and turned palo. Then he wrig
gled away and said :
“Let me alone. It is not safe for you to assault a
man in daylight."
“Now, come,” eaid Pigalle, “we want your com
pany. I and my friend here are detectives and there
is a little matter at St. Denis into which we wish to
inquire."
The man dipped, got clear of the hand of the offi
cers and started on a run for the Rue du Faubourg
St. Antoine. Here Thiboumory’s powers as a quick
stepper came in and he started in pursuit. Alter a
brisk run the officer captured the man in tho Rue
d'Aligre. Soon afterward Pigalle. who was a very
big, stout man, came up, and the little man was re
moved without further trouble. On him were
found over 700 francs in bills, a letter to a lady and
a card-case, evidently new, the card within bearing
the name. “Monsieur Napoleon Tiphaine."
Next morning the porter at the railway station at
St. Denis was brought in secretly, and he identified
the man as the one who had taken the early train
to Paris.
A FIND.
Thiboumery, meantime, visited the house on the
Rue St. Marguerite and asked the big lady for Mon
sieur Tiphaine.
She knew no such person.
“Ah, well," said Thiboumery, “he isaeuriou
fellow, is my little friend with the long hair *’
“Why, that is Jacques Ramchaud, the peddler!’
the woman exclaimed, “who has just oom© into a
small fortune."
“That’s the man," said the officer. “Now, where
can I find him ? Im his uncle.”
“No —, Rue St. Jacques, on the top floor," was
tho reply.
Thither went the officer, and as the landlord ob
jected to have the door of Ramchaud’s room broken
open, ho unlocked it with a master key. Thibou
mery found a gray blouse, a pair of oordurov trou
sera and thick boots; also a leathern belt with a
hook at the end.
In the pocket of the trousers the officer found a
slip of paper, gummed together at the ends. On
tho outside of this paper circle was written “ 1,009
fr. C. C."
“This explains it," he said, and, calling the land
lord, he put a seal upon the door and directed him,
at hie peril, to allow any one to approach the roonr
Then Thiboumery carried away in a bundle the
clothes which he bad lound and put the slip of pa
per in his pocket-book. .
THE THEORY OF THE CRIME.
The theory was that the peddler had placed his
basket in the bush by the side of tho river and
prowled around to see what he could pick up.
On the side of the villa ground next the river,
there was a stone wall, and over thia the peddler
climbed. Passing by the end of the stables, and
down by the side of the villa, he had come upon the
open window of the study, with hia back to which
Charles Cassette sat. Peering in, the peddler had
seen the bundle of bank notes, which Charles had
probably taken from the safe for some purpose un
known. The avaricious wretoh could not bear the
sight, and drawing a knife, possibly a large clasp
knife, sprang in, plunged the knife into his vic
tim and, seizing the notes, departed. Probably he
had returned to the bush and stayed there until
he thought it was time to catch a train into Paris.
Ramchaud stoutly denied the crime, but it was
shown that Charles Cassette was accustomed to put
bis money up with a paper slip around the notes,
and the writing upon the slip found in Ramchaud’s
pocket was identified as Charles's.
On the trial all the circumstantial evidence wa."
brought out in a very strong light and the peddler
was convicted of murder with extenuating circum
stances. He was sentenced for life to hard labor.
Maurice Moriarty’s Luck.
HE GETS OFF, BUT HIS FRIEND FITZ GETS A
MONTH.
There was a quarrel and fight between Jim Fitz
patrick and Maurice Moriarty, in front of the cloth
ing establishment of Betsy Silverstein, No. 97
Baxter street. She said the two met in front of her
door and commenced to growl. They then threw
off their coats, not worth a button, and began to
pitch into each other at an awful rate. Terrific
blows were given and received, but somehow they
went over the shoulder or under. Finally they
clinched and there was considerable “ fibbing.’
Then the cry got up, “Cheese it I—the cops I" The
fellows then broke and Moriarty picked up his coat,
while Fitzpatrick, in the confusion, took two of
Mrs. Silverstein’s hand-me-down coats and made off
with them.
Officer Murphy said he arrested Fitzpatrick; an
other officer arrested Moriarty twenty minutes after
the theft and fight. Fitz went back to Baxter street,
drunk, and he arrested him when in full flight and
a woman in hot purfuit behind. He had stolen a
wash from tho roof.
Moriarty said he never saw Fitzpatrick. Passing
the woman's store, a Jew came after him and
charged him with stealing two coats. He gave the
Jew a rap on the side of the head for his impu
dence, when the officer came up and arrested him.
Fitz said he had trouble with a man in Canal
street and he went in the yard to wash the “claret”
from his “bugle." Coming back through the hall
way. he found a lot of things under the stairs.
There seemed to be no owner for them, and he
picked them up.
The Court discharged Moriarty, but sent Fitz to
the Island for a month.
Milk Watered Twenty-eive Pei:
Cent. —Henry Pracht, of No. 210 Sullivan street,
was found guilty of selling milk adulterated twenty
five per cent, with water. Defendant said he had
been there eight years, and never knew that he sold
adulterated milk.
Dr. Isham said a look at it, or the feel of it by the
fingers, would show that the milk was watery.
“Have you bad this man before?” asked the
Court.
“ No,” replied ths doctor. “It was a citizen that
wrote to the Health Department, requesting atten
tion to bo given to his milk. He said in his com
mii’iicatio i that the milk was so bad he had to
return it."
•• Where did yon get the milk ?" asked Ibe Court.
•• From Air. JStiliuao, No. 536 East Thirtieth
street.”
“Cue hundre i do lars fine,” said the Court.
PRICE FIVE CENTS.
~~ f ..m. ~ - - ■■■ ■ ■■■ Trirr—
ON THE SLO3E.
Beyond those sunset bars of gold.
Which light the waves of the purple sea.
Near the crystal river, the pearly gate.
Know you are watching and waiting for me.
Not weary, not fearful, for Time with you
Is never measured by lingering years,
And tho golden points on the dial’s face
Are numbered by smiles, aud not’.by tears.
To-night as I walk on the lonely shore,
And list to the mournful surge’s beat.
I think of the music that falls on your ear.
Of the beautiful blossoms that lie at your feeV
Aud 'tis joy to know that no grief of mine
Can darken a brow so bright and fair;
Yet I sometimes fane* my spirit can feel
A gleam from the glorious radiance there.
A boat will lie shortly on yonder wive.
The Boatman be drawing toward the shore-
His call of warning I soon shall hear,
And the soft, low plash ot His ready oar.
He will bear me safely. His arm is strong.
Till the walls of the golden gate I see;
And when I reach it your task is done.
There is no mare watching and waiting for me.
BEWITCIWLORIIIE.
BY A NEW AUTHOR.
CHAPTER XIV.
"1 DO NOT LIKE TOC, DOCTOR 1T.1.u”
Ten days of tho month during which Guy ha»
promised tho earl he will refrain from writing
to or seeing Lorrie have elapsed. It is after
noon tea-time at the Rectory, afitHjorrie and
Greta are sitting in the gloaming, with tbair
cups in their hands and their feet on the ~
fender.
Of late Lorrie has been unusually silent and
thoughtful, and Greta, as she looks at her now,
fancies that she has grown somehow thinner
and more “ womanish.” Her bewitching face is
just as beautiful and irresistible as ever, but
there is a depth—is it of sadness ?—in the dark
eyes which seems to grow more settled and
constant each day.
Jack had chaffed hor about the measles,
Greta remembers, and she wonders, half fear
fully, if Lorrie is really going to be ili: only half
fearfully, for it seems impossible to imagino
Lorrie in anything but tho most robust and
vital health.
Outside, under the veranda, two sots of feet
are heard pacing up and down; they belong to
the rector and Mr. Seymour Meltord.
Lorrie listens to them in contemplative si
lence for some minutes, then she says: **?
“Greta, I wonder what papa and Mr. Melford
find to talk about ? They have boon trotting up
and down for nearly an hour now.”
Greta laughs.
“The new school-house, politics, or some
other of the many topics gentlemen find to talk
about.”
“They must be inexhaustible, then,”retorts
Lorrie; “for Mr. Mellord seems to spend all hia
spare time here. He was here yesterday, and
the day before, and the day before that, and he
and pupsio always go off to the study together,
or prowl round the garden, talk, talk, talking.
Yesterday afternoon I saw them with their
heads together over some paper.”
“The plan of the school.”
“No, it wasn't,” says Lorrie; “I know that a
mile off. It was seme printed paper.”
Greta yawns.
“I don’t know what it was, I’m sure. It is
very nice of Mr, Melford to amuse papa.”
“ Very nice,” assents Lorrie grimly.
“ Papa hasn’t too much company, and he is
always glad to see him.”
“Yes; I wonder Mr. Melford doesn't live
here,” remarks Lorrie not very amiably.
Greta laughs her gentle, good-natured laugh.
“It would be very pleasant; he is always so
agreeable and well-informed.”
“He is our Admirable Crichton; but all tho
same I’m glad he doesn't take up hie abode at
the rectory.”
“I dare say ho feels rather dull at the Pines,
now Diana is away,” says Greta.
“If we owe the pleasure of his society to Di
ana s absence, I for one shall welcome her re*
turn with enthusiasm,” remarks Lorrie.
Greta looks at her with mild surprise.
“ I can’t conceive why you dislike Seymour
Mellordso much,” eho says.
Lorrie makes an impatient gesture with her
hand, which screens her face from the fire.
“•I do not like you, Doctor Fell, the reason
why I cannot tell; but I do not like you, Doctor
Fell 1’ ” she replies. “ I don’t like Seymour
Melford, and I’m afraid 1 shan’t grow to like
him." .
“lam sure h© is most attentive io you,” say®
Greta, pleading for the absent, asall good-na
tured people do, and, as is always tho case,
making matters worse.
“ I know he is,” retorts Lorrie impatiently.
“ He is always dancing about me with a chair or
a glass, or something or other. lam afraid to
drop my scissors or lay down a book, for if I do
he is sure to pounce upon it and hand it up, as
if he had nothing belter to do than pick up the
articles I ehed.”
"People don’t often complain of too much at
tention,” remarks Greta smiling.
“I Ante too much attention!” retorts Lorrie
petulantly. “ I would rather a man threw things
at my head than have him always at my elbows
like a lackey. Nearly all my time is taken up in
saying, ‘Oh, thanks !’ ‘Don't trouble 1’ to Mr.
Seymour Melford."
"That’s because you don’t like him,” says
Greta sagely. “If it were any one else, now —
Lord Kendale for instance—you would be civil
enough.”
Lorrie screens her face with her other hand,
and so hides the faint flush that rises.
"Perhaps,” she says shortly. “ I don’t see
any use in discussing it, however. Lord Ken
dale is not likely to trouble mo with any atten
tions for some time to come
As she speaks the window opens, and Sey
mour Melford steps in, followed by the rector.
The younger man's taco is just as usual se
rene, softly smiling, “ Greek but there is a
flush ol excitement and restlessness upon the
rector’s refined countenance, an expression
which Lorrie thinks, wouderingly, ts generally
upon it whenever Mr. Seymour Melford is at the
rectory. "*
“ Will you have some tea?” asks Greta. “You
must have found it cold out there, 1 should
think.”
“It is rather chilly,” assents Seymour Mel
ford, coming to the fire, aud looking down at
the slim figure leaning forward in its chair in an
attitude which Millais would have been glad to
paint, together with tbe beautiful face, with the
play o the lire glare upon it. “ Can I hand you.
another cup, Miss l orrie ?”
“No, thanks,” she says coldly. “J have had..