New York dispatch. [volume], October 09, 1887, Image 1

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

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PllliOn A. J. WILLIAMSON’S MS.
VOL. XLII.--NO. 52.
Entered at the Post Office at New York,
N. Y., as Second Class Mattel*.
THE NEAV YORK DISPATCH,
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PLAYS ANDJLAYERS.
MR. PINERO’S “DANDY DICK.”
Concerning the Stage Clergy-The Same
Old Mold-Wliat there Is in “Dandy
Hick’’-Its Characteristics and Faults
— The Heine Life Background - A
Comedy’s Background and Central
Figures—A Suggestion to Mr.
Pinero. Etc., Etc., Etc.
BY JOHN CARBOY.
I cannot assort, with any degree of truthfulness,
that 1 have ever tarried long enough within the
domestic circle of a clergyman of any denomina
tion to gain a knowledge of ita customs and con
duct.
Nor has my association with the clergy been so
extensive and intimate as to have proved of any
value to me in determining with accuracy the na
ture of their home-life, or their social inclinings
when away from the rustle of their vines and the
shadow of their fig trees.
So far as personality is concerned, the clergy and
[—like “ Betsy and I '’—are out.
Therefore, if it is true that familiarity breeds con
tempt, I ought to hold the clergy in the highest
esteem. I can say it truthfully, considering the
feeling I entertain for sundry fetors, into whose
nature familiarity gave me a pretty thorough in
sight,
I have read—as who has not—the “ Vicar of
Wakefield.” Good, easy, trustful old soul, who
could help loving him ? Yet, not to speak it pro
fanely, it has always seemed to me, when I recall
the story of his domestic troubles, that with all his
gentleness, his goodness and grace, he was some
thing of a gullible old ass, and really too impossibly
good for a continued residence upon this sinful
earth.
These aged vicars, ministers, deans and deacons
of the novel and the drama always carry too much
of their shop with them.
Like the actor, they invariably spring the shop
and its line of goods upon you. They cannot even
divest their clothes, their walk, nor their facial ex
pression of their trade-mark.
Zk« ur hr iny observation has had scope of the
aged clergyman of plays, and the novels—their so
cial and domestic lives, and those of their wives and
pons and daughters—are as like as muffins baked in
the same mold.
There is no more variation, no more divergence
from the same eternal round of repetition than
there is in the repertoire of a theatre orchestra.
Or in the immortality of debt.
Really, in past times, and even now, the play
wrights
OLD CLERGYMEN ARE IMBECILE;
•heir lawyers Impudent, nosing villains, and their
doctors intermeddlers with their hands in every
business except that of their profession.
And in the line to which I allude, of aged gentle
men of the cloth—Mr. A. W. Pinero has given
another example—The Dean of St. Marvells, In his
comedy entitled "Dandy Dick.”
Evidently Mr. Pinero does not intend to be out
Of fashion in this regard.
And I suppose these dear old senile saints, like
tradition materialized, will haunt the stage in drama
and comedy forever and aye.
The mold will never be broken.
On Wednesday evening last this comedy of Mr.
Pinero s, •• Dandy Dick,” was for the first time in
this country presented, upon Mr. Daly’s stage—the
performance being the more notable.’as Inaugurat
ing the ninth regular season of Mr. Daly’s manage
ment of this theatre.
The audience was typical of the audiences which
are the inevitable attendants upon the^first nights
at Daly’s as at Wallack’s and at the Madison Square
Theatres—where, in the season, neither combi
nations, nomadic stars, no; leg and topical song
opera profane the stage with their passing shows
and cheap triumphs.
It was that quality of audience which gives gra
cious cheer to dramatic art and its servitors —an
"audience in which literature, science, the profes
sions and society had their representative integrals.
It goes without saying, that Mr.
is thoroughly English In color, character and con
struction, and is built upon the same lines in its
humor, incidents and style of argument with
which he has made us familiar in his former works.
The language flows smoothly, the sentences are
rounded, significant and never devoid of point, and
serve well their intent.
I do not think, however, that the dramatis personae
of this comedy are fitted to the several members of
Mr. Daly’s Company included in the cast.
Nor do I believe these players will ever be able,
clever as they are, to make themselves fit the charac
ters—with the exception, perhaps, of Mr. Fisher—
and with him—all honor to the longevity which
Lhs preserved him to us—it is his ago rather than
acting, in the Dean—which gives it special signifi
cance.
THE OBJECT OF THE COMEDY
seems to bo that of exhibiting an English clergyman
as a pitiable, weak-minded old fellow, whose dull
and prosy life and quiet home shall serve as aback
ground to bring into bolder relief a young woman,
bis sistor, who is of the turf-turfy and as lamiliar
with the coarseness of the stable as she is with the
jockeying of the race track. With her, too, in the
foreground of the picture, is the breezy, assertive
Tristram Mardon—also of the turf.
Then breaking in upon the background are other
characters. Major Tarver, whose chief plaint is a
demoralized liver; Lieutenant Darbey, who is re
markable for nothing except the innocuous desue
tude of his mental organism; Noah Topping, a
constable, who certainly is an anomaly, and a bright
and pronounced young woman, Hannah Topping,
the constable s wife.
s a part of the dull and colorless background—
ol the Doan s home and household there are his
daughters Salome aad Sheba—whose only apparent
claim to any interest whatever finds basis In their
clandestine arrangement with the liver-haunted
Maj r and the vacuous Lieutenant to attend a
ma-, d ball p.omewhare in the neighborhood, and
an . old fel ow—Blore, the Dean’s butler.
'! n■■ io, then, are the principal personages of the
co. i-J ~ be first act is comedy; the remainder of
n.t '\ork purely iarcical.
THE STORY
: r cerns the troubles of the Dean, whose financial
s impel him to put up £SO on “Dandy Dick’*
.. t -a.-o which is to occur—and he gives the
:• •'ucy to his old butler for that purpose, tho butler
:-ing to a penchant for dabbling in racing ven
•. y for himself, but as an agent for the
• v v ■,r.u> below stairs.
i >ver kn-w before that clergymen, distressed
nds—al ove all, English Deans—were apt to so
in their butlers, especially butlers who were
At dead of night, when churchyards get tired and
yawn, the Dean compounds a bolzis, in which he is
assisted by the butler, with which he betakes him
self to the stable and attempts to dose the horse in
order to ensure the racer’s health tor the morrow s
race. In this he is detected and is arrested by the
town constable and locked up, charged with an at
tempt to poison the animal- And this event fur
nishes the basis for all the subsequent action, the
farcical conditions and pitifully ridiculous situa
tions in which the innocent old Dean, by the forced
contrivances of the play wright, finds himself.
Of course it all ends well; “Dandy Dick” wins;
the daughters and their lovers and Georglanna and
Tristam receive the old man’s blessing, and in the
closing scene the butler gets in the most effective,
and, in fact, the only opportunity afforded him, to
make himself conspicuously amusing.
Mr. Pinero has supplied a dialogue which is
bright but never brilliant, and action and incidents
and situations which, of their kind, are humorous
and enjoyable, but are by no means novel, and at
times seem strained.
Certainly “Dandy Dick” is not a work worthy so
clever a play maker as Mr. Pinero; nor is it one in
which the talent of Mr. Daly’s excellent company
can be otherwise than at something of a disadvan
tage.
Aud it is only a manager of Mr. Daly’s artistic
taste, care in attention to detail and tireless disci
pline in rehearsals, who could give such
AN INCONSEQUENT WORK
so excellent a showing and so adroitly conceal its
deficiencies with the resources of stage craft.
The audience witnessed the performance with
abundance of good humor; laughter was frequent,
and the members of the company included in the
cast were accorded a deservedly hearty and generous
welcome back to the stage and the theatre which
they have made memorable by the good work they
accomplished in former seasons.
Having written “a little piece,” so far as Mr.
Pinero’s comedy is concerned, there comes to me
the suggestion that it would be a praiseworthy act
on the part of some one of the army of playwrights
who are feverish with a desire to distinguish them
selves, to write a play in which he could introduce
a clergyman, who, in his professional battle with
the world, the flesh and the devil, could brace up
and show himself to be mentally something less
pliable than a lump of soft putty.
it stands to reason that an irresolute, innocent
man could not baffle Satan and overcome bis wiles
with any degree of success. There must be mental
strength and firmness, physical courage, and cer
tainly something of experience in wickedness and
sin on the part of the true Christian, to enable
him to overthrow them? No man as innocent of
guile as are thefce stage clergymen could avoid tum
bling into the first pitfall contrived for his down
fall by the devil.
No more than can the country jay, unversed in the
swindling devices of the city, make of his verdant
innocence a protection against tho tricks of the
confidence operator.
YOU HAVE GOT TO FIGHT YOUR ENEMY WITH
HI3 OWN WEAPONS,
and if you do not know what they are, nor anything
as to their strength, and how they, are used, you
can make up your mind that you will oomo out
second best in tho contest.
The general who begins a battle without knowing
anything of the condition and forces of his foe,
will ensure for himself tho misery of defeat.
The lawyer who defends the interests of his client
is not going into court without a pretty fair knowl
edge of the strength of the other side of his case.
In fact, in this advanced aa° - »“•“» *- vaca
tion, cannvt db a pnanio innocent, nor can he, intel
lectually, as easily be led as asses are, and be a credit
to himself and respected by his fellows.
The unworldly minister of the gospel—if there
ever has existed one off the stage since Christianity
first blessed mankind with its beneficent teachings
—is of no more account in his efforts than a wooden
image.
I don’t believe in that sort of custard pie goodness
which is emasculated of every vestige of humanly
sin—and humanly error.
And when we have clergymen presented
to us on the stage who are supposed to have grown
old and weak in the harness, with their eyes purg
ing thick amber, or have in their age become obese
and rotund, through being simple innocents, and
through being entire strangers to sin of any
description whatever—who shall claim that they are
other than an insult to the intelligence of the time ?
Why, even the occasional swell minister, who is
at rare intervals a conspicuous integral in the cast
of a play—your regular
REVEREND CREAM CHEESE
withall hi bypocricy and affectations, is a being*
who has a reason and good purpose for his existence
when compared with one of the regulation-run>in
tho-mold clergymen—“ good old parsons”—who
totter about and whine, and play the idiotic be
fore the footlights.
Let our playwrights when out of their imagina
tions they build up one of these clerical types, con
struct a being that is normally human; a person
ality that is something more in mental condition
than that of a harmless zany; a man in fact, and not
the stuffed image of a purposeless angel.
There is much more solid humanity to the square
inch in Bronson Howard’s fashionable, but hypo
critical parson, Dr. Murray Hilton, than there was
in Goldsmith’s •* Vicar of Wakefield.”
There was more of the humanly earth-born nature
in the Rev. Mr. Stiggins and in Chadband—than in
tho butter-headed old ministers who have formed
the religious contingent of the playwright’s work.
There is force and character and meaning in the
Ohadbands and Stigginses.
We know they were hypocrites; we know that
their intimacy with wickedness was of the closest;
but they were not boros. They were not helpless,
motiveless platitudes; thero was nothing of stagi
ness, nothing of the same old mold-marks in their
make-up.
Now, when the playwright creates a parson, a
vicar or a dean as a character, let him give us one
who is good and pious, just, honest and faithful in
his trust and true to his cloth, not because he was
born a platitudinous, innocent ass and all his life
has shut himself out from contact with the world
and worldly-minded, but because he is of the world,
and knows and has battled with its temptations
and overcame them by the force of his manhood
and intellect. Give us one who doesn’t imagine
that his supreme innocence is ample bail for his
safety against all the machinations of the Devil
and an assurance of his piety and goodness.
And I hope Mr. Pinero will, when he springs an
other Dean upon the drama, give the reverend gen
tleman sufficient force of character, virility and
that knowledge of the world the father of a family
and the head of a congregation should have to ena
ble him to be something more than a butt, and be
and his home life other than a dull, colorless back
ground for the vagaries of a horsey sister,
atomy.
SCIENCE MUST NOT BE STUDIED IN THE BOW
ERY ON SUNDAY.
“Sunday, the 31st of July, did you seo defend
ant?” asked the Court.
The officer was Bayer, of the Eleventh Precinct;
the defendant was Richard Ward, manager of a ten
cent dime museum in the Bowery.
“Yes, sir,” was the reply of the officer to the
Court.
••Where ?”
••In the Bowery. He was sitting in the box tak
ing in the dimes and giving out the tickets.”
For what ?”
“A museum.”
“ What did you see there—theatricals ?’*
“No; allkinds of diseases,” replied Officer Bayer.
“It was an anatomical museum?” asked counsel.
•• What’s that ?” asked the officer.
“ Don’t you know what anatomy is ?”
“Oh,” was all the reply.
“Is it an offense to have an anatomical, scientific
exhibition of the wonders of the construction of
the human body ?” asked counsel.
•• Yes, sir,” replied Justice Smith.
“ This isn’t a curiosity shop,” said counsel, “look
ing into the interior of the political frauds, but tho
human system, such as we ourselves are. It is a
place of instruction.”
“Ten dollars fine,” said Justice Smith, cutting i
short this exordium of counsel. ° I
NEW YORK.I SUNDAY, bCTOBER 9, 1887.
A ROYAL ROUE.
A Copy of the Memoirs of' George IV.,
Which was Suppressed by the Eng
lish Crown, Found in this City.
INCIDENTS OF A KING’S SHAYIE.
Career of the Most Licentious Prince
that Ever Disgraced a Throne.
Extracts from the Famous Huish
Memoirs.
The interest that has recently been revived in
facts and incidents relating to the life of King
George IV., by reason of the finding of a copy of
the famous memoirs, long since thought to be sup
pressed, prompts the writer to give the readers of
the Dispatch an insight into the character of that
dissolute monarch, as it is defined by this book.
These memoirs were issued by Robert Huish, in
1831, and created such a sensation of scandal that
the royal family of England immediately set about
suppressing the edition and preventing a future
issue.
It was believed this aim had been successfully ac
complished, until some time since a copy was
found in possession of a gentleman in this city,
for which the British government paid $2,500. It
appears, however, that there exists another copy,
which is owned by a friend of the writer, who pro
poses shortly to republish it.
SOME EXTRACTS PUBLISHED.
It is not the intention in exposing to view the vailed
side of a profligate prince’s life, to pander to the
vicious tastes of the prurient, but to show to what
baseness a noble nature may beperverted by a wrong
ful use of qualities that should ennoble and exalt
character, and endear a prince to his people, and to
further show what good occasion the English gov
ernment had for wishing to hide this loul spot on
the royal purple. It was said of this man by one
of his own time that, did his mind only correspond
with the comeliness of his person and the nobleness
of his countenance, were he but half as active in
requiring esteem as he was in losing it, he might
rise to a hight of splendor as incomparable as un
common. There has been no effort made to throw
any light on the political intrigues or court rela
tions of the prince, and though the incidents
selected are taken from, sometimes, widely sepera
ted epochs of his life, they mark an unbroken uni
formity of character in moral depravity and manly
degradation that must prove George IV. to have
been one of the most profligate, unprincipled and,
in many respects, odious princes of ancient or mod*
ern times. The first extract recounts his birth, and
his death was as pitiable as this event was auspi
cious,
George IV. was born in 1762, and was the twenty,
first prince of the royal family of England who bore
the title of Prince of Wales. The mode of confer,
ring the rank of Prince of Wales is by investure
with a cap, a coronet, gold verge and ring, and by
issue of letters patent under the great seal.
On attaining the years of majority the heir appa
rent was unquestionably the most accomplished
young prince in Europe. He had cultivated the
science of music and the knowledge of languages
with great success, and his tastes in the fine arts
was in many instances strikingly exemplified. Be
side, possessed with a ready wit, the most engaging*
manners, an impulsive, ardent nature, and a will
that reckoned every other subservient to its own,
might well picture a youth whose way would run
only among the roses of success when he came to be
courted and leted by the society in which he moved
by the exercise of his pleasure. Hitherto debarred
from the enjoyment of those pleasures so natural
to youth, ha plunged at once into the joys of socie
ty with all the avidity of the fainting traveler who
hastens to the gushing spring to allay the torments
of his thirst.
HIS FIRST VICTIM.
it tuo briiiinnt ooiobratioti ut ms nineteenth
birthday the Prince gave outward evidence of his
own disposition and the influence it was likely to
exert upon iemale hearts susceptible to the potent
charm of a royal wooer. Lady Sarah Campbell was
one of the greatest beauties of the British court,
and it was not strauge that she should have a per
sonal fascination for the Prince when it is consid
ered that she was, together with her beauty, a crea
ture of angeiic mood and temperament. She was
his chosen favorite at the table and at the ball.
The keenness of the female eye sees at once the aim
when any disparity of rank exists; and be it said,
to the honor of Lady Sarah Campbell, that she did
seo the aim of tho Prince’s attentions; and although
she might have loved, yet all beyond was pure as
the pearl taken from its native shell. She saw the
danger with which she was surrounded; the chain
was not yet so strongly entwined around her but it
might be broken. She did break it, and became
the wife of one of the most amiable noblemen of the
day.
Fights were by no means exceptional with the
prince. He rather prided himself on his pugilistic
prowess, and was not averse to exercising it in cir
cumstances that did not comport with bis princely
dignity. He was a liberal supporter of all musical
concerns, and especially affected Ranelagh Garden,
which was a favorite resort with him, and he was
much admired for his discourse and friendly con
descension. From being a patron of th§ arts it
followed that the prince was often at the opera and
the theatre, aud Irom arts to artists was such an
enevitable sequence that there should be no sur
prise in finding the prince face to face with au
actress in the embrace of love. It is set down
among the annals of common report of the day that
his first serious escapade was with Sirs. Robinson,
famous as Perdita. But this is disputed by some
who have a further recollection, and the writer of
these memoirs finds that Harriot Vernon, a maid of
honor, was seized upon in her seventeenth year,
when the prince was approaching his majority.
Owing to the secluded life of the prince and the
strict decorum of the life of a maid of honor, they
had great difficulty in effecting a secret meeting
after it had been arranged by signs, but it followed
quietly that the fair flower was defoliaged, and
Harriet Vernon ceased to bean honorable maid, but
a few days before she was retired from the position
of a maid of honor.
Nature, fortune, rank, and education fitted him
for the easy making of conquests, and this simple
girl, though the first, was by no means the last nor
the most discerning of his victims. He bad an un
scrupulous surrounding of flatterers who servilely
fell in with all his views, and fawned upon him for
their own profit. With every fresh amour his appe
tite appeared to be sharpened; with the possession
of each object his self-opinion and his natural in
constancy increased.
I HE BEAUTIFUL PERDITA.
The intimacy between the prince and Mrs. Mary
Robinson was one of the most noted love affairs.
When they first met he was but nineteen and she
was twenty-one. She was a beautiful, lovely, and
in many respects highly talented woman, and her
misfortunes were certainly commiserable. She
was the wife of a careless, neglectful and profligate
young man, who left her, with her fascinating
mental and personal attractions exposed to the gaze
and blandishments of libertine rank and fashion.
After many and frequent interviews with the
lady, who, alter separating from her husband, had
adopted the stage as a profession, the enamored
prince became completely absorbed In the woman
whose many charms of person and graces of* mind
made a deep impression upon his youthful sensi
bilities. The meetings were the more cautiously
conducted as the prince was about to receive his
first establishment, and the apprehension that his
attachment to a married woman might injure his
royal highness in the opinion of the world, ren
dered the caution invariably observed of the ut
most importance. Presently the affair came into
notoriety. The daily prints began to teem with
scandalous paragraphs. Mrs. Robinson became the
gazed-at of the multitude, and had to quit her
house at Ranelagh, In writing to a friend in after
years, she gyd:
“At the nWment when everything was prepared
for his royal highness’s establishment, when 1
looked impatiently for the arrival of the day in
which I might behold my adored friend gratefully
receiving the acclamations of nis future subjects,
when I might enjoy the public protection of that
being for whom I gave up all, I received a letter
from his royal highness—a cold and unkind letter
—briefly informing me that we must meet no
more I”
There was np explanation given. The beautiful
flower was thrown aside with the most callous in
difference; the spoiler had reveled in its sweets, he
had satiated himself in its beauties—in the ardor of
his love he took it to his bosom, blooming, fresh,
full of life and bounding spirit; he threw it from
him broken, despoiled, faded, destroyed forever.
THE PORTRAIT OF A ROUE.
••Surrounded as his royal highness was at this
time by gamblers of every rank and degree, his
losses became immense, his embarrassments alarm
ing and disgraceful. His nights, which were not
otherwise employed, were spent at the faro table,
whither he was often taken in a state of almost
helpless intoxication, to render him the greater
dupe of those who were then fattening on the un
hallowed spoil obtained Irom their deliberate vil
lainy. At this time there lived a Jew in Crutched
Friars, who had amassed a splendid fortune by his
usurious advances to the extravagant libertines of
the age. Tho exigencies of the prince became op
pressive to him, and every expedient was adopted
to obtain the necessary supplies for the extrava
gances of the day, however great the sacrifice might
be. The channels from which the supplies had
hitherto been obtained, were completely exhausted,
and not a farthing could be raised on the responsi
bility of any of the immediate associates of the
prince; the whole party were actually in a state of
the deepest poverty, and Major Hanger, in the his
tory of his life, mentions a circumstance in which
he. Sheridan, Fox, an illustrious individual and a
Mr. Berkeley, repaired to a celebrated tavern then
known by the name of the Staffordshire Arms,
Starless anlr f nirqj entrrnt.
where, alter carousing with some cypriana who
were sent for on the occasion, the combined re
sources of the whole of tho party could not defray
the expenses of the evening. On this occasion
Sheridan got so intoxicated that he was put to bed,
and on awaking In the morning, he found himself
in the character of a hostage for the expenses of the
previous night’s debauch.
••From this lamentable period of the life of his
royal highness, we turn to one of tho most import
ant events of it—his connexion with Mrs. Fitzher
bert. This lady was a widow of great accomplish
ments aud beauty, and was some years older than
the prince. She was, unquestionably, a most beau
tiful woman,”
In this instance the prince had not to do with
an inexperienced girl, but with an experienced
dame, who had been twice a widow, and who, con
sequently, was not likely to surrender on common
terms. She was very coy and hard to win. She knew
better than to yield to the conditions that had
marked the former loves of the prince, and to es
cape him she retired to France. Considerable pres
sure was brought bear on her and she returned to
London. She found the passion of her royal lover
still burning with its former ardor, and such means
were soon after employed as to make the lady no
longer consider it a disgrace to acknowledge herself
the object of it.
A DASTARDLY RUSE.
This shameful, yet pitiful, story is too long to be
reproduced in the words of Mr. Huish, yet it more
fully defines the baseness of the prince than any
thing else that appears written down to his igno
miny throughout these memoirs. The mansion
referred to was the delightful home of the Harring
ton’s, whose daughter Elizabeth was one of the
loveliest, most joyous and charming types of inno
cent girlhood that ever gladdened the hearts of
fond, cherishing parents. The prince saw her one
day and the fragrance of her youthful beauty in
flamed his evil desire. Knowing ho could not woo
there in his real character, he threw honor aside
and had recourse to a most dastardly subterfuge.
Through the manipulations of Lady Lade, a demi.
pep, elevated to a title from Lakner’s Lane, St, Giles,
who under a pretended indisposition got into the
Harrington mansion, and managed to win the regard
of Mrs. Harrington, and was particularly lavish of
praises and attentions to Elizabeth, she insiduoue
ly instilled into the ears of her unsuspecting victim
the most exuberant praises of the personal graces
and the manly virtues of the •* Hon. Mr. Elliott,”
and in time succeeded in having tho prince intro
duced under that name.
To follow this amour through all its details
would be to describe on one hand, all the arts and
blandishments which the most confirmed libertine
could employ to effect the conquest of female virtue;
and, on the other, the helpless contest, the unavail
ing efforts, the last expiring struggle of the writhing
victim; it would be to picture on one hand the
heart-rending scene of the afflicted parents as they
followed their beloved but dishonored child to the
grave; and, on the other, the heartless gayety and
reckless indifference with which the seducer looked
upon the wreck that he had made.
The rival who came most effectively forward
against Mrs. Fitzherbert, was Mrs. Bristow, a beau,
tiful woman, referred to as the “Light of the World,”
who was determined to make a conquest of the
prince, and especially desired to triumph over Mrs.
Fitzherbert, who, now, rather looked upon as the
mistress of the prince, assumed a sort of royal scorn
of less favored wonjeu with whom she came into as
sociation.
THE LOVELY MISS ARCHER.
At a fete given by Mrs. Bristow, the piince met
the lovely Miss Archer, a girl whose purity seems
to have been more than equal to the titled glamor
or personal charm ot his royal highness. His arts
were practiced never before so well nor so politely.
He handed her an exquisite diamond-set locket, in
the centre of which was engraved “G. P.” and the
motto, “L’amour est I’ange du monde.” The next
morning it was returned to him with the single
line : “La virtu est la f* licite de la vie.”
That evening he visited Mrs. Hobart’s fashiona
ble faro-table, she being tho woman who had un
dertaken to manage the Archer affair for the
prince. When the prince came in, Hobart, in all
the richness of her voluptuousness, seated herself
at his side.
“The point is gained,” she said. “Archer is
yours if you will pay the price.”
“Impossible !” exclaimed the prince; “I cannot
believe it. You must have been misinformed, for
it is only this morning that I received back the
present which yon so dexterously nnuvoyAri into
her hands.”
“That is a trifling circumstance,” said Hobart;
the sudden effect, perhaps, of a qualm of con
science—a matter of false delicacy. A girl, unless
the is a consummate simpleton, generally suspects
to what a present leads, or, more correctly speak
ing, to what it is intended that it shall lead; and 1
have known many girls who have refused a silver
toy and have afterward accepted a golden one. Per
haps your present was not rich enough. But the
truth is, I have managed the business with the
mother —the price, I must confess, is rather high.”
“With her mother, did you say ?” exclaimed tho
prince—“ with Lady Archer herself? Oh, it is not
possible I Why, I should suppose she was the last
person on earth with whom you would have con
ferred on a subject of that nature. To consult with
a mother on the ruin of her daughter, and to ar
range a stipulated price for it—such an aot is
scarcely heard of in history; it is too preposterous,
too unnatural, for me to entertain the thought for a
moment. Hobart, it cannot be.”
“But it is true,” said Hobart, “and the terms
are £SOO a year for the life of the mother and a set
tlement of £I,OOO a year on the daughter.”
•• And upon the fulfillment of these terms,” said
the prince, “ Lady Archer consents to sacrifice her
child ?”
“It has been so stipulated,” said Mrs. Hobart.
“Then,” said the prince, rising with indignation,
“I renounce tho business altogether. Whatever
may be my libertine propensities, never shall pos
terity have to record of me that I could stoop to tho
infamy of bartering with a mother for the ruin of
her daughter. I know not by what terms to stig
matize tho conduct ot Lady Archer, nor do I con
sider that there is a word in the English language
forcible enough to express my abhorrence of her
character. If by any arts, stratagems, or promises,
the ruin of a girl may be accomplished, let the con
sequences fall on the head of her seducer; but to
mingle the infamy of it with having purchased her
innocence of her own mother, is an aot I would not
have resting on my conscience for all the beauties
of a seraglio. Toll Lady Archer that the Prince of
Wales in future declines her further acquaintance.”
THE ONLY INSTANCE.
This seems to be the only instance of the Prince
of Wales recoiling from any project, however odious
in the sight of morality, that promised a new con
quest to the cause of Venus, and it shows that he
was possessed of some redeeming virtues. To fol
low this libertine prince step by step, along his
career, or to the spiced story of his life,
would require a space no less than the Memoirs,
which are in two volumes. One of the most das
tardly of his amorous exploits, however, if tho Me
moirs are to be believed, was his participation in
the schemes and scenes that led to the downfall of
Louisa Howard, a protege of this same Hobart, who
used her as a decoy for the prince. This was the
beauteous creature of whom it was said she
“ Was sent on earth
To show man what angels are in heaven,”
She was a novice in the world when the prince
first met her, and his attentions to her excited the
jealousy of Lady Jersey, who was an aspirant for
dishonor at the bands of the prince, and she em
ployed a young stable boy to act as spy.
•• The youthful emissary of Lady Jersey, without
the aid of experience or of caution to guide him
through such a labyrinth, went fearlessly to work.
In an ill-fated hour he was entrapped in the vicin
ity of the premises by the prince himself. An in
stantaneous explanation was demanded—the boy
hesitated—the prince became exasperated, and,
hurried along by the impetuosity of his feelings,
he inflicted that summary chastisement upon the
boy which rendered him a cripple for the remain
der of his life; and which, but for ths aid of high
est professional skill, would have proved his
death.”
A DEGRADED HUSBAND.
On April 8, 17C5, the prince was married to the
Princess Caroline of Brunswick, his first cousin,
the king himself giving the bride away.
•* Her reception at her husband s house was a
stain to manhood; a fashionable strumpet usurped
the apartments of the princess—her rights, the hon
ors that were due to her—everything but the
name she bore, and the bonds which galled and dis
graced her. The master of tho mansion felt not his
own dignity insulted when the half drunken men
ials made their royal m stress the subject of their
gross ribaldry or spiteful abuse. She complained
to her parent; her letters were intercepted, and the
seals violated. The offense of her misery was un
mercifully punished. She became a wanderer over
the earth. She sought, after many years, a home
in England, the birthplace, and once the expected
kingdom of her only child. Unsated malice,
vengeance, perjury and persecution followed her.
She grappled with, strangled them, and bravely per
ished.”
We cannot better conclude the extracts from this
odious history of shame that England may well
wish blotted out of existence, than by recounting
the following distressing incident. Thero came to
London a Mrs. M , beautiful, fascinating, elegant
and young, who speedily became the fashionable
rage. The prince saw her and immediately nut in
operation all his powerful allies to accomplish her
ruin. She was enticed to a place on the pretense of
joining a hunting party. There she found a gay
party, but it was announced the hunt would not
come off. In the meanwhile tho poison of adulation
was successfully instilled into the too credulous ear
of the lovely woman, and the victory was half won
before the despoilor came to rob the shell of its
pearl.
HIS CROWNING SHAME.
After a time the prince drove up as though by ac
cident, and was with difficulty prevailed upon to
alight. It is unnecessary to paint the picture of
her subjugation to the blandishments of pretended
love. She became the favorite of the prince. Ono
morning when ho sat at breakfast with his beautiful
companion the prince began talking of a “once be
loved favorite,” because “there is something in
your shape and figure, in the very form of your
countenance, and in your very manners that
strongly remind me of her.”
•« Was she allied to nobility ?” asked Mrs. M
“Of her immediate station in life,” answered the
prince, “I knew but little: she represented herself,
and was known in tho fashionable circles, as the
daughter of a respectable Yorkshire gentleman of
moderate fortune; bnt I frequently heard her speak
of her two sisters, one of whom she depicted as
far surpassing herself in personal attractions. What
that sister must have been in point of beauty I can
not pretend to say, but I will so far confess that I
considered Louisa Howard as one of the most per
fect beauties I bad ever seen.’*
“ Louisa Howard !’* exclaimed Mrs. M., while an
ashy paleness came over her countenance.
“ And what of her ?" asked the prince. “Did you
know her?’’
“ Gracious God I” exclaimed Mrs. M., scarcely
able to maintain herself, “ and have I then been
sacrificing myself to the seducer of my own
sister?”
“Louisa Howard your sister I’* exclaimed the
prince, “it cannot be.”
A SISTER’S ROMANCE.
“ Oh, it is all too true,” exclaimed Mrs. M. “I
had forgotten many things which now rush to my
memory to show me my guilt* When Louisa be
came a victim to your strategems, I was then but
just bursting into life. I heard the whispers of her
dishonor, but never to this moment did I know the
name of him who brought it upon her. For her I
weep not, for she is happy. It is for myself I weep.
I stand now a dishonered, a guilty, wretched crea
ture-shut out from future happiness-a loathing
to myself—the merited scorn and hatred of a malig
nant world. Henceforth there is no desert too dark
for me, no solitude too deep, I shudder when 1
think of it, that to my sister's seducer, to him who
dragged her like a iamb to be immolated on the
altar of his unhallowed passion, to him have I now
sacrificed all that is dear, all that is valuable to
woman. From this moment we part to meet no
more—seek out another victim, and add another
crime to your already overloaded soul.”
“ They did part to meet no more; this beautiful
woman disappeared on a sudden from the world of
fashion, like one of those coruscations of heaven,
bright and glorious for a moment, when on a sud
den not a trace of It is to be seen—lost, annihilated
THE MAN AND THE KING.
What the memoirs say of the man as the prince
will apply to the man as the king:
••That sens*, of shame, which operates even on
ordinary minds, formed no part of his moral char
acter—he commenced his life as he closed it—vain,
glorious, profligate and extravagant; he seemed not
to feel nor to understand the duties of his station;
all his gratifications were selfish, all his indulgences
sensual. Real friends he had none, but of needy
dependents he had a crowd, and the * most finished
gentleman of Europe’ was content to reign over a
palace occupied by none but courtezans and para
sites. Education, which corrects and modifies the
passions of other men, appeared to have no other
tendency than to confirm and strengthen his in all
their plenitude and force. The moral beauty of
virtue, emasculated in the festivities of vice and the
debaucheries of a harem, possessed, in his sight, no
permanent value. Without eyes for pure and in
nocent forms, everything was meretricious about
him; innocence sunk abashed in his presence, and
modesty turned from his gaze.”
1 PLOT FOR A MILLION.
Dramatic Scene in a Cremato
ry in Paris.
Why the Supposed Corpse of
Mons. Gouville Was Not
Consumed.
A GANG OF CONSPIRATORS EXPOSED.
How the Men Spiders of the French
Capital Ply Their Infamous Trade.
Alfred Gouville found employment with the mer
cantile firm of Gombault & Saripet, Paris, in 1856.
Ha WAS than CAVAnfnon yoaro of ago, and livnd with
his mother. He had never known hitf father, who,
ho supposed, had died when he was too young to
remember him.
Alfred was of a very quiet, retiring disposition,
and had received only a fair education. Though
not remarkable for intelligence, he was diligent
and attentive, and when his mother died three
years later, was making sufficient to maintain him
respectably. He rose by degrees, being always
faithful and attentive, and not given to any of the
follies which Parisian youths commonly pursue.
He lived alone, read a few books as thoroughly as
he could, and finally imbibed some notions which
young men in his position do not generally enter
tain.
When he reached the age of thirty-six he was
still single, and manifested no Inclination toward
matrimony. He had formed a strong predilection
for the modern doctrines of cremation, and was
very fond of visiting the crematories and seeing the
last rites to the dead performed. The only holi
days he ever took of later years were devoted to
that object.
SUDDENLY WEALTHY.
At the ago last mentioned, he occupied a position
of mu h responsibility, and was intrusted by his
employers with business of great importance.
They bad Implicit confidence in him; in fact, they
trusted him much more than they did others in
their employ who possessed greater ability and
more marked intelligence.
One day he was summoned to the office of a
prominent lawyer, and informed that a gentleman
of high position had just died and left him a mil
lion francs. He was cautioned to ask no questions
as to his benefactor, but the inference he drew was
that the gentleman was his father and that he was
an illegitimate child.
After he came into the possession of the money he
occupied a house in the Rue Berthe, near the Place
St. Pierre, He furnished it elegantly, and provided
himself with a good library. He gave up business
and devoted himself to reading and excursions into
the country adjoining the big city. This was in
1876.
HUMAN SPIDERS.
In no city in the world, perhaps, are there so
many human spiders as in Paris. They spread their
nets for the weak and unwary in every direction,
and ensnare many foolish or too confiding victims.
They are on the watch for new fields of operations
all tho time, and they have hundreds of methods of
encompassing the ruin of those whom they seek to
enmesh. A nest of these voracious creatures very
soon, and under remarkable circumstances, discov
ered Alfred Gouville, and having ascertained his
wealth and his isolated position, they set them
selves to work to capture him.
Toward the close of 1876 a vacant house adjoining
that occupied by Alfred Gouville was rented by a
family named Desaix. The head of it was a physi
cian, and two daughters and a son composed the
rest of it. Dr. Desaix had been an adjunct to a
popular physician, who numbered among his pa
tients many persons of distinction. Among them
there was a man of wealth who, as soon as he
learned that his illness would prove fatal, requested
the physician to summon a notary and another per
son whom he could implicitly trust with a secret.
The notary came with the physician and also Dr.
Desaix. A will was drawn, leaving a million francs
to Alfred Gouville, and the physician and Dr. Desaix
were the witnesses. The trustee was a well-known
lawyer, the same from when Alfred subsequently
learned his unexpected good fortune.
ARRANGING FOR THE ATTACK.
Dr. Desaix was a ready man. But ho was worse.
He was utterly unprincipled. One of bis daugh
ters, Emily, had been the mistress at an early age
of the physician referred to, with her father’s appro
bation. and the other had barely escaped a similar
fate. The son. August, was the companion of black
legsand gamblers and all Nvere ready at any time to
pluck tho feathers from any bird of rich plumage
that came their way. Dr. Desaix made it his busi
ness to find out all about Alfred Gouville, and a
family council was then hold as to how they could
best fleece him. It was agreed that Marie, the eld
er, was to play the part of a young widow and pass
as Madame Courbe, while Victoria, the younger,
was to assume the role of a demure and sedate
young lady, inclined to piety. Both wore very at
tractive and it was thought that the two together
might weave a pretty web around the new million
aire. This explains why they came to be his next
door neighbors.
August Desaix was commissioned to inaugurate
the proceedings by which Alfred Gouville was to be
entrappod and victimized. August was a few years
Alfred's junior aud it was a very simple thing lor
him to call upon his neighbor. Alfred was enter
tained by the vivacity and superior knowledge of
men and things displayed by his new acquaintance
and they soon grew intimate. Then Alfred was in
duced to visit his neighbors and the fascinating
ways of the young •* widow ” and her sister fairly
overpowered him.
WILES.
He went again and again, and one day during his
absence the two women took possession of his
domicile, and with deft hands made such a
transformation of things there that when he return
ed he hardly recognized the place. Curtains and
pictures and ornaments were re-arrangod, and other
alterations were so tastefully made as to astonish
the owner.
After this the Desaix family dined with him, and
so in turn he dined with them. They played cards
and finally ho accompanied the ladies on short ex
cursions into the country. In due course they be
came thoroughly intimate, and Alfred’s life seemed
to possess new charms for him. He fell in love
with Victoria, and she artlessly returned his affec
tion. Thus things went on until he proposed mar
riage and was accepted.
In the Autumn ot 1877, Dr. Desaix complained of
serious illness. His daughters manifested the great,
est anxiety, and Alfred’s sympathy was excited.
Then it was that Dr. Desaix took occasion to dis-
OFFICE, NO. 11 FRANKFORT ST.
course to Alfred on the uncertainty of life and so
forth, and suggested the desirability of an early
marriage. Victoria, however, coyly objected to this,
but at the same time exercised all her arts to bind
Alfred more closely to her. At length when she had
got him into her toils, she promised to marry him
at a certain date, but made it a condition that he
should first execute a will in her favor. This he
did, aud informed her of the fact.
CHANGING THEIR METHODS.
After a time she begged to see the will, as she was
so ignorant of such matters and so wishful to see
what such a document was like. Alfred placed the
will in her hands, and sh-i read. Then she discov
ered that one of the conditions under which she
was to possess all his estate was that in case of his
death, either before or after the marriage, she
should cause his body to be cremated.
Victoria, like a dutiful child, detailed to her
father the contents of the will. The cremation
clause set him a thinking. The fact was that there
was a very serious obstacle to Victoria’s marriage
with Alfred. It was the fact that she already had a
husband living. This difficulty had, ot course,
been fully considered at the very outset of the con
spiracy to entrap Alfred, or rather from the time
that it was evident that he was fascinated with the
younger sister. The purpose was to put Alfred
quietly out of the way by poison as soon as the will
was made in Victoria’s favor; but now it struck Dr.
Desaix that it was quite possible to pursue a safer
course, and still gain the end desired.
COMING TO A CRISIS.
Dr. Desaix very suddenly recovered his wonted
health, and a dinner was given to celebrate the oc
casion. Cards were introduced and champague
flowed freely. A young man present began to pay
particular attention to Victoria, and this, as it was
intended to do, excited the jealousy of Alfred.
Drugged wine was administered to him, and next
day, when he awoke in his own room, whither he
had been removed, he was oblivious of much that
had occurred the night before. But the informa
tion was speedily to be supplied. August Desaix
now made his appearance, aud was apparently
greatly distressed.
“ My dear Alfred,” he said, “what a terrible thing
this is 1”
And be fell into a chair and covered his face with
his hands.
“My God, what is the matter?’ Alfred asked, ris
ing from his bed, •• Is anything wrong with Victo
ria ?”
••‘Ah, my friend, she is in a dreadful state,” was
tho reply. “The poor young man is dying.”
•• What poor young man ?” asked Alfred.
“ Why, Alfred,” said August, looking at him with
well assumed surprise; “is it possible you can ask?
The young man whom you assaulted last night.”
••What in the name of Heaven do you mean?”
Alfred asked.
“It won’t do, Alfred,” was the answer. “You
assaulted him, as you know, most brutally and. as
it turns out, fractured his skull. My father has just
left him and there is no hope.”
•• As there is a God above, I don’t understand
what you are saying,” said Alfred.
••You remember Monsieur Dreffeac whom you
met last night ?”
“Certainly I do.”
“You remember that you became absurdly jeal
ous because he showed some attention to Victo
ria?”
••Yes, I remember that I didn’t admire his famil
iarity.”
“His familiarity I” exclaimed August. “Why,
they were brought up together. It was nothing.
Do you suppose that Victoria does not love you
with all her soul ? If you could only see the poor
child now I She is prostrated with grief and sorrow
at the dreadful position in which you have placed
yourself.”
•• Well, now, will you tell me what I have done ?”
“Why, you seized a chair and brained him with
it, and ho is dying—dying; and you will be arrested
and have to go to prison.”
THE FINISHING STROKE.
At this juncture. Dr. Desaix entered and, request
ing his son to retire, spoke to Alfred.
The result was that the unfortunate man realized
the fact that the previous night he had fatally as
saulted Monsieur Dreffeao, and might at any mo
ment be arrested as a murderer. He protested that
he knew nothing of it, and that he must have drank
too much wine.
“That makes no difference in the crime,” said
Dr. Desaix. “Justice will not take any notice of
that part. You are, lu the oyos of the law, equally
guilty, drunk or sober.”
“Great Heaven I” exclaimed Alfred; “ what shall
Ido?”
“I have been thinking for you on that subject
ever since I feit certain that fatal results would fol
low your assault. The only way is to quit the
country for a time, until the affair is forgotten. I
am attending poor Dreffeac, and will do all in my
power to cover up the real state of affairs.”
EXILED.
So it was arranged. That night, Alfred, well dis
guised and amply provided with funds, left lor
Havre, and the next day sailed for America, where
he was to remain until it was safe for him to re
turn. Previous to hia going, he discharged his
servants, giving each a handsome gratuity, and loft
his house in the care of the Desaix family. He ex
plained to the domestics, at the suggestion of Dr.
Desaix, that he was in failing health and was going
to place himself under the immediate care of a cele
brated physician.
As soon as the domestics had quitted Alfred’s
house, the Desaix people took charge of it. Dr.
Desaix called two or three times a day, and it was
stated, whenever occasion required it, that Mon
sieur Gouville was very sick. Finally his death
was announced and Dr. Desaix, who had ample
lacilities in such matters, procured a corpse to use
as a substitute lor that of Alfred. The undertaker,
selected from a distance, prepared the body for cre
mation and a day was fixed lor the ceremony. The
corpse was removed to the crematory at the time
appointed.
SOMETHING HAPPENS.
In the meantime something had happened which
Dr. Desaix and his confederates had not anticipated.
On reaching Havre, Alfred remembered that he
had left no one to take charge of his estate. He
wont to a merchant whom he knew well and in his
company visited a notary. A power of attorney was
drawn authorizing Alfred’s former employers,
Gombault and Saripet, to act for him in his absence,
and the merchant promised to see it placed without
delay in the hands of the newly appointed attorney?.
This he did, with a note from Alfred, stating that he
was leaving the country for a short time.
When Messrs. Gombault and Saripet saw the
announcement in a morning newspaper that the
remains of Monsieur Alfred Gouville were to be
cremated that day, they were astounded. They
thought that it must be some other person of tho
same name, but then they remembered that latterly
their old employee had always said that he desired
to be cremated after death. They resolved to
fathom the mystery if possible.
Going to Allred's abode, they found that the fu
neral had already departed. They followed to the
crematory, and reached it just as the corpse was
about to bo transferred to the furnace.
THE CONSPIRATORS EXPOSED.
Their advent was a great surprise to Dr. Desaix
and his family, who were the only mourners. They
protested against the intrusion of strangers, but
the power of attorney was exhibited, along with the
letter written by Alfred, and tho authorities not
only admitted the two gentlemen, but permitted
them to see the remains.
They at once declared that it was not the corpse
of Alfred Gouville.
The ceremony was suspended, and the police
were called in. Dr. Desaix, in exculpation, told the
story of the alleged assault, and said that the pre
tended death and the attempted cremation and the
departure of Gouville for America, were all parts of
a scheme to secure immunity to the absent man.
But when Dr. Desaix was required to show the
police where Monsieur Dreffeac resided, in order
that they might visit the place and see tho victim
ot Gouvilie’s rage, he could not do it.
MONSIEUR GOUVILLE’S RETURN.
A dispatch was sent by cable to New York and,
when the steamship reached that port, it was await
ing Monsieur Gouville. It disclosed to him that he
was the victim or a conspiracy and urged him to re
turn, which he d»d by the next vessel.
On reaching Paris, all the details of the plot to
secure lus fortune were disclosed. When Desaix and
his accomplices^found that they were irretrievably
involved, they pleaded guilty and received merited
punishment. Dr. Desaix was sent into imprison
ment for ten years, Augnst for five and each of the
daughters for two years. If Dreffeac could have
been found, he, too, would have been punished, but
his whereabouts could not be ascertained. It was
generally supposed that he was the husband of
Victoria.
Music TFitliont Charms,
JIMMY DIDN’T PROVE AN ALIBI THIS TIME.
Margaret Delahanty charged James J. Hennessy
with assaulting her. She said his gang broke the
windows, and she got out of bed and looked out.
She told Hennessy he had no business to bring
thieves around there, and scolded him. That fel
low, the prisoner, wanted to rob the house, and
when she ordered him off he knocked her down.
Here is how the defendant swore “agen* the old
lady:
“I was singing this nighf,”said Hennessy, “play
ing the harmonia, and she threw bottles from the
roof. She said she wanted no •sarnading’ in Twen
ty-second street. The bottles weren’t aimed good,
aud I played on. I stopped to talk to Martin O'Brien
when a bucket of water came down. Then the old
lady made her appearance in the street, and said,
• Get out of here, you thieving robbers.’ I said she
couldn’t prove I was a thief. She took the last
•swig’ out of the bottle that she had, and when
empty she tried to fling it, but it fell at her feet and
broke, and she fell on it. That’s how she got cut.
She was drunk.”
“ Were you ever arrested ?” asked the Court.
“Once on a false charge, receiving stolen proper
ty. I proved an alibi.”
He didn’t prove an alibi this time, and the Court
gave him a mouth in the Penitentiary.
Don’t judge a man’s character by the
(Dference ?;ur.vn him. No one ever saw a chimney-
PRICE FIVE CENTS.
THE DIVINE LULLABY.
BY EUGENE FIELD.
I hear thy voice, dear Lord;’
I hear it by the stormy sea
When winter nights aro bl ick and wild;.
And when afright I call to thee
It calms my fears and whispers me,
“Sleep well, my child.”
I bear thy voice, dear Lord;
In singing winds and falling snow,
The curfew chime, the midnight bell,
‘•Sleep well, my child,” it murmurs low,.
•'Theguardian angels come and go.
O, child, sleep well!”
I bear thy voice, dear Lord;
Ay, tho’ the singing winds be stilled,
Tho' bushed the tumult of tho deep,
My fainting heart with anguish chilled
By thy assuring tone is thrilled—
“ Fear not, and sleep !"
Speak on—speak on. dear Lord ’
And when tho last dread night is near.
With doubts and fears and terrors wild r
Ob, let my soul expiring hear
Only these w’ords of heavenly cheer,
“Sleep well, my child 1”
[This story was begun in No. 47 of the DISPATCH',
Back numbers can be obtained at the Dispatch of
fice, or from any newsdealer.]
fettling
A WOW HATE.
BY A WELL-KNOWN AUTHOR.
CHAPTER XVIII.
“ THE WOMAN TEMPTED ME AND I DID BAT.
“My dear Turberville, you look—why, man,
what ails you ?”
Sir James Rushton puts the question with «
hall-amused, half-amused expression, and both,
feelings may well be excited by tho curious ap
parition that suddenly breaks in upon him ag
he sits quietly at work one atternoon.
Mr. Gustavus Turborville is at no time distilla
guished by an easy and graceful manner OS
prepossessing exterior; but he is a grotesque
caricature of himself to-day. His face is rail
and swollen, his eyes look at once cravenly ap
prehensive and determinedly defiant, his whole
appearance is indicative of painfully-wroughtl
resolution, coupled with a wild excitement that
can hardly be kept in check.
“ I—l have tried for two days to see you,” ha
gasps, as he sinks heavily into a chair, and
wipes his forehead with a handkerchief that
ehakes in his hand; “ but they kept me awayf
they feared I should excite you—as though,"
with a melancholy smile as though I had no
sense or self-control.”
1, Sir James smiles too with what his visitor con
. aiders a eatislactory contempt for the absurd
, supposition, and says dryly:
“I have been carefully nursed. Do you know
i I have hardly seen Marcella for two days ?”
; Mr. Turborville groans in alarming fashion)
t then, seeing a startled look on the other’s face,
adds hastily:
“I dare say not, I dare say not. She has
been a little unwell, I hear. Nothing serious;
: pray do not excite yourself—girls are always a
’ little indisposed—to amuse themselves, I sup
i pose. I did not come to talk about that.”
' “I hardly suppose you did,” Sir James says,’
With a touch of impatient wonder. “Never
i mind my nerves, Turberville—they are steady
enough, now. So out with your news, man, at
1 once.”
“.t is not news -” Poor Mr. Turbervills
- falters, looking longingly at the ealm and un
-1 troubled taco. He must speak now. Lady
Rushton and the ever-watchful Harriet are for.
once out of the way-such an opportunity ir
i hardly likely to occur again. Not to seize it
1 would be utter fully, and yet
“Oh, heavens, if he should go off in a fit, or da
anything awful of that kind 1” the unhappy maß<
thinks, recalling with a shudder the dangerous,
materials with which he has to deal. “lanx
sure to do some dreadful mischief it I try to set
things straight, and yet I cannot leave them aS
they are. I have been the cause of too much
misery already.”
“ Well, have you lost your tongue altogeth
er?” Sir James queries, leaning back in hla
chair, and surveying his queer visitor with'
1 brows judicially upraised. “Or do you imaging
. that there is something specially soothing in the
sight ot a speechless guest?”
i “ No, no; give me a moment just to collect my
thoughts,” the other answers, with a ghastly
smile. “I have something serious, something
important to say, only I do not quite know how
to begin.” >
“ Perhaps I can help you with a suggestion!
You have quarreled with Miss Crane ? You want
' me to make your peace with her.”
: Mr. Turnerville's sudden flush and truculent
scowl negative this idea even more effectually
than hie eager words.
“Never I I never wish to see her again,
Rushton; she is—a viper 1”
The fervor with which he hisses out the last
words amuses Sir James, and perhaps touches
some sympathetic chord in his feelings, for thers
is no bond ot friendly liking between him and
Harriet Crane; but he suppresses all sign ot
mirth, aud utters his coldly dignified rebuke
with due decorum.
“ She is Lady Rushton’s sister, at least. We
must not forget that.”
“ No, no, I do not; I beg Lady Rushton’s par«
don, and yours, I am sure; but the fact is, that
woman's conduct has been simply infamous,
cruel, and unwomanly in the last degree.”
His eyes glare wildly, his face grows purple,
he is almost choked by rage and excitement.
“Gently, gently. You will do yourself harm,
my good fellow; try to take things a little calm
ly. Miss Crane has jilted you, I suppose ?”
“Jilted me,” the other echoes with withering
scorn. “ She has made me behave like a hound
—like the dirtiest our; and now, Heaven knows
what mischief I have done 1”
He pauses, knits his shaggy brows, from un
der the shadow of which he every now and then
oasts a curious, searching, half-appealing glance
at his obviously unmoved companion, then says
with abrupt determination:
“I have come to make a confession, Sir
James I”
“A confession—and to me?” There is sur
prise certainly, but none of the fatal excitement
Mr. Turberville has been taught to dread in Sir
James's answering glance—indeed, there is i
furtive twinkle in the clear gray eyes, as ho adds
in a lower tone, to which he scarcely succeeds
imparting the proper judicial sternness “ 1
hope you do not mean to tell me that the ilting
is on the other side 1”
Mr. Turberville receives these words wish ls
gesture of grotesque despair, and 1 an undenia
ble leaven ot pity mingles with the vexation anti
perplexity of Sir James Rushton's thoughts.
“ How can Ibe hard on the man, i. :■ he.
sees his mistake, and tries to save biinsoli in
time?” ho muses whimsically. “1 have sent