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HOW NOTED ACTORS DISCARDED THE BUSKIN FAMOUS FAREWELLS. When Garrick, Macready and Cushman Left the Stage. THEIR SAD LEAVE TAKING. in the Character of Lear, Garrick Played His Last Part. OF CUSHMAN'S FAREWELL TOUR. •Fortune Old Not Repay These Great Performers With a Nig gard Hand. We—all of us—ihe most of us, have our farewells; that Is, If we are not snapped away, or unceremoniously snuffed out by tbe Cirui.'e-extlnguisher of death. It is accounted a piece of go-Mi fortune with me actor especially, nfter having played his part—his many parts—well, nfter hav ing lined his purse with the rewards o-f an appreciating, an adulating, a doting public, to bp able to make his formal farewell—to play his last part, and say his last say, and retire to the shades of domesticity and private life, contemplate his past, the stcrms and quicksands, and Shipwrecks perchance, of his career, and eit down, as Horace would say, in safety. So great, however, is the fascination of prsing before the footlights night after night—so sweet, so enticing, so intoxicating is the wine of public applause, that few of our great stars have attained to the Felf-abnegatlon to appoint the hour of their exit and the courage to make a flrVls to their careers. Like the poet who has charmed all hearts with his words, like the singer who has ravished all ears, the actor is apt to ignore ihe signals of deepening wrinkles, of departing elas ticity, of waning volume of voice. Tt Is no easy sacrifice to lay by the pen whose touch has been magic, or to say cease to tho voice whose utterance has swayed multitudes. So the actor Is apt to lag superfluous, to over-live his day, to wear out his v- elcome, and to experi ence in life that chagrin, which Is sure to come to poel, sii ger and actor with an ebbing cf the tide. In other words, he cannot expect to be ever in the fashion, ever in the favor of the fickle goddess. It always has been so, and always will l>e so. And yet, if there are thespians who have reaped the golden harvest nf honors and riches, there are others—faithful servants of the public—giving ever of their best— who would fain say amen to it all. but must perforco still keep to the stage; whom the world of theatre-goers has re warded with a gracious but a luke-warm applause and fortune has paid with a niggard hand, becacfe in their character nature has left out but the one element that transfuses talent into genius. A common fate, however, awaits them all—the bright particular star who has illumined his generation as well as the hardworking "support" who moils through life n-->ar. the ragged edge of gentility. Oblivion (to a large extent) will sooner or later cover them with its mantle and heap them In the great common grave of forget fulness. This is the shadow that may rightly cyst Its gloom athwart the actor's heart, across tho brow ot" a great reputation. He may be catalogued as great, and may expect to see his name In the file with Aeschinos and Tloscius, Bellerton and Garrick, Kean and Kem ble —but the praise that follows a memory Is not the applause, the ovation which shall greet his succeeding star, with the morning dews of young talent and ambi tion, and the smile of well-founded hope ond confidence upon his brow. To be read of and labelled great—is not still to have an audience hanging upon his measured utterance, responsive to the key-touch of joy or sorrow, pity or pathos, or anger, and all the mingled sentiments stirred by tragedy and comedy. • « • David Garrick, the greatest performer of the last century, is the only one of his contemporary actors who Is remem bered at the present time or whose achievements on the boards has equalled his posthumous fame. Yet David Gar rick, tbe friend of Johnson, Goldsmith and Walpole, has been mouldering in the tomb now for 115 years. His has been a fame that has not dimmed. Like Nell Gwynne, Garrick had an early penchant for the stage. From wine merchant to the undisputed Rosclus of the English stage was made with almost a single bound. It was not in one character that he excelled. He was equally proficient in tragedy as in comedy, and as a mimic his equal has not been seen. Besides having a "fine stage inspiration," he was * scholar, as well as a graceful and ele- ! DAVID GARItKK. gant writer. For variety of powers. Gar .rick has known no competitor. His Ham let was considered indisputably the best that the stage had over seen since Shakes peare created it. while his Abel Drugfer and Archer were inimitable. His comedy 'extinguished" Dibber (the great Colleyl. while nobody had been seen who could equal his Richard or his I.ear. But Gar rick had his critics—the jealous Wulpole could find little to admire, while John son, his friend and tutor, in his envy at David's success, lampooned him In his Rambler. Soon, however, the great doc tor pronounced lilm a genius and the most liberal man of his day. Many sto ries are told of Garrick as a mimic; suf fice to say that he frightened Hogarth himself by assuming the face of the de funct Fielding, He had, in consequence, been called a "monkey." It was his be lief that a man must be a good comic actor to bo a great tragedian; thus it was he come to be called "a hypocrite who laughed or cried for hire." Of course, he made a great fortune, and like Betterton had no children. But at last the leaving time came—and the two fa mous performances were announced, for June 9 and 10, 1776, the first night as Lear and the last, Don Felix, His Lear way played to of Miss Younge. As the curtain 'descended, said Doran, they lay on the stage hand In hand; and hand in hand they rose and went, Gar rick silently leading, to his dressing ?oora, whither they were followed by many of the company. There stood Lear and Cordelia, still hand In hand, and mute. At last Garrick exclaimed: "Ah, Bessie, this is the last time I shall ever be your father; the last time!" and he dropped her hand. Hiss Younge sighed, too, and replied affectionately, with a hope that before they parted he would kindly give her a father's ble33ing. Gar -lok took It a* it was meant, seriously; •iqd as Miss Younge bowed her head, he mised his hands and prayed that God *-ould bless them. William Charles Macready Is a name held in high esteem by all those of the profession he espoused, who are doing their part to prove that an actor may be a gentleirian and an honest man—and that the mission is a high one. He was a close, a hard student, who labored scru pulously for perfection, and he was an elevator of the stage. His private life was exemplary—a devoted husband, a faithful parent. He occupied very much the same position to the London of his day that Thomas Betterton and David Garrick did in theirs—he was recognized as the leader of his vocation, and was honored by the friendship and society of the leaders in literature and politics. It is a strange fact (which we find prominent a the beginning of many a great actor's career) that embarrassed finances im pelled him to hecome an actor. He, like others so impelled, may have felt that this was his vocation, and his necessities may have merely made the occasion which required a choice of what to do. Of Macready's farewell, I will let him tell the incidents in his own words. He wrote in his diary, on Feb. 26, 1851: "Went to the theatre. Dressed in the room 1 had fitted up for myself when manager and lessee of the theatre, and as I heard the shouts and cries of the assembled crowds at the doors, thought, with thankfulness to God, of the time I listened to those sounds with a nervous and fretful feel ing, my fortune and my children's weal, depending on the success of my undertake ing. Acted Macbeth as I never, never before acted it; with a reality, a vigor, a truth, a dignity, 'that 1 never before threw into my delineation of this favorite ■ liar acter. I felt everything J did, and of course the audience felt with me. I rose with the play, and the last scene was a climax. I did not see who assisted me to my room, I believe it was Mr. Simpson of Birmingham. T dressed as rapidly as I could, and, thinking of what I had to do, gave notive of my 'being ready,' that dear old Wllmot might, according to his wish, clear the entrance for me. I thoußht over what I had to say, and went forward. "To attempt any description of the state of the house, of Ihe wild enthusiasm of applause, uvery little portion of tho vast assembly in motion, the prolongation of applause, tho deafening cheers, would be useless. After a time, that I have never in my experience seen approached, I ad vanced. I was deeply touched by tho fer vent, the. unbounded expression of at tachment from all before me, but pre served my self-possession. 1 addressed them in these words: 'Ladles and Gen tlemen —My lust theatrical purl is played, and, in accordance with lorn? established usage, I appear once more bed ore you. ESven If I were without precedent for the discharge of this duty, it is one my own feelings would Irresistibly urge upon me; for as I lcok back upon my long profes sional career, I see in it but one con tinuous record of indulgence and support extended to me, cheering me In my on ward progress, and upholding mo in my mortifying emergencies. 1 have therefore been desirous of offering you, in my own Character, my pert ing acknowledgments for the imparl [al kindness with which my humble efforts have uniformly been received, and for the life made happier }by your favors. The distance of more than rive and thirty years has not dimmed my recollection of the encourage ment which gave fresh impulse to the unexpected essay of my youth, and stim ulated mo to perseverance, when strug gling hard for equality of position against the genius and talent of those artists whose superior excellence I un grudgingly admitted, admired and hon oied. That encouragement helped to place me, In respect of privilege and emolu ment, on a footing with my distinguished competitor*. With the growth of time my favor seemed to grow, and, undis turbed in the hold tn your opinion, from year to year I found friends more thickly clustering around me. All I can advance to testify how justly I have appreciated the patronage thus liberally awarded me Is the devotion, throughout these years, of my best energies to your service. " 'My ambition to establish a theatre, in regard to decorum and taste, worthy of our country, and to have in It the plays of our divine Shakespeare, fitly illustra ted, was frustrated by these whose duty it was, In virtue of the trust committed to them, themselves to have undertaken the task. But yet some good seed has been sown; and in the zeal and creditable productions of certain of our present managers we have assurance that the corrupt editions and unworthy presentations of past days will never be restored, but the purity of our great poet's text will from henceforth be held on our Kngllsh stage in the rever ence it ever should command. 1 have lit tle more to say. By some the relation of an actor to his audience is considered as slight and transient. I do not feel It so. The repeated manifestation, under cir cumstances personally affecting me, of your favorable sentiments towards me will live among my most grateful mem ories, and because I would not abate one jot in your esteem, I retire with the be lief of yet unfailing powers rather than linger on the scene to set in contrast the feeble style of age with the more vig orous exertions of my better years. Words—at least, such as I can command are ineffectual to convey my thanks; you will believe that I feel far more than I give utterance to. With sentiments of deepest gratitude I take my leave, bid ding yuu, ladies and gentlemen, in my past professional capacity, with regret, a last farewell.' " ret Rivalling Garrick in versatility of pow ers was Charlotte Cushman. It was said of her that she attempted nothing that she did not supremely well. Her reper toire comprised, like Garrick's, a great va riety of characters, from the tragic to the comic, and in all she was applauded by a doting public. Unlike Garrick, Charlotte Cushman did not meet with Instantaneous success. It was only after years of toil 'that she achieved a permanent and splen did renown. Her first experience on the stage was in opera. She was fortunate In having been trained by Maeder, a cele brated professor and teacher of vocal music. On her first appearance at the St. Charles Theatre, New Orleans, she met with some favor. From her early youth a fixed and determined purpose to succeed dominated Charlotte Cushman's LOS ANGELES HERALD: SUNDAY MORNING,. MAY 26, 1895. being. She was earnest in everything she attempted. It was to this cause that she soon found that she had ruined her voice. Then it was that Charlotte Cushman turned her attention to the drama. If she was fortunate in having a vocal teach er of consummate ability in her dra matic studies, she was even more blessed In having for her Instructor Barton, a famous actor of his day and a man of patience nnd consummate ability as a stage manager. Under such capable guid ance Miss Cushman made her debut as Lftdy Macbeth, and made a complete tri umph. From this on in America and In England she achieved one success after another, until Charlotte Cushman came to be looked upon as the queen of the stage and the greatest actress of her age. Be sides excelling in tragedy and comedy, she was especially proficient in male roles. Her Romeo was pronounced superb, and It was said of her by a young English lady that "Miss Cushman was a very danger ous young man!" The farewell night waa on Nov. 7, 1874, at Booth's Theatre, New York. The audi ence was a brilliant one—everybody cf any note In the metropolis was present. The play being over, the curtain was rung up, and the stage was seen to be crowded with representative men. The chief figure was William Cullen Bryant, who was there from the Arcadian Club to present her with a crown of laurel. The poet Stoddard having recited an ode addressed to the actress, Mr. Bryant performed his duty in feeling words. Charlotte Cuehr man's reply to these honors was as fol lows: "Beggar that I am, 1 am even poorer in thanks, but I thank you, gen tlemen; heart has no speech; it's only language, is a tear or pressure of the hand, and words very feebly convey or interpret its emotions. Yet I will beg you to believe that in the three little words that 1 now speak, 'I thank you,' there are heart-depths which I should fall to ex press better, though I should use a thou sand other word's. "I thank you, gentlemen, for the honor you have offered me. I thank you, not for myself, but for the whole profession, to which, through and by me, you have paid this very graceful compliment. Ii CHARLOTTE cushman. the few words I am about to say savoi of egotism or vainglory, you will, I am sure, pardon me, inasmuch as I am here only to speak of myself. You seem to compliment mo on an honorable life. As I look back upon that life, it seems to me that It would have been impossible for me to have led any other. In ihis I have, perhaps, been mercifully helped more than ; are many of my more beautiful sisters in art. I was, by a press of circumstances, thrown at an early age into a profession { for which I had received no special editr cation or training; but I had already, though so young, been brought face to face with necessity, found life sadly real ■ and intensely earnest, and in my Igno rance of other ways of study, I resolve-J to take therefrom my text and my watch-, word. To be thoroughly in earnest in all my thoughts and in all my actions, wheth er in my profession or out of it, became my single idea. And I honestly believe herein lies the secret of my success in > life. I do not believe any great success \ in any art can be achieved without it. "I say this to the beginners of my pro ■ , fession, and I am sure all the associates, in my art, who have honored mc with ■ their presence on this occasion, will in dorse what I say in this. Art is an ab-, solute mistress; she will not be co-' quetted with or slighted; she requires the most entire self-devotion, and whe repays with grand triumphs." Concluding. Miss Cushman said: "To my public—what shall I say? From the depths of my heart I' thank you, who have given mo always consideration, encouragement and pa tience; who have been ever my comfort, my support, my main help. I do not now say farewell to you in the usual sense of the ward. In making my final repre senlation on the mimic scene in the vari ous cities of the country, I have reserved the right of meeting you again where you havo made me believe that I give you pleasure which I receive myself at the same time, at the reading desk. To you, then, 1 say, may you fare well and may I fare well, until at no distant day we meet—there. Meanwhile, good, kind friends, good night, and God be with you." The ovation that followed is without precedent in the dramatic history of our country. As many as 25,000 people had assembled on the streets leading to the Fifth Avenue Hotel. They were there to honor Charlotte Cushman. In spite of her protest, her progress from thero to the hotel was accompanied by a torch light proceesicn. Filial Affection. Mamma—Now you cannot say, John, that baby does not love you. What do you think she has pleaded with me to ask you for? Papa—What, dear? Mamma—Well, she wants a lock of your hair. Baby—Yes, papa, do let me have it; my wocking-horse has lost its tail, and " (Tableau.) Peculiar Wedding Law, In Waldeck, a little German principal ity, a decree has been proclaimed that a license to marry will not be grunted to any Individual who has the habit of get ting drunk; and If one who has been a drunkard applies for such license, he must produce sufficient proof of reformation to' warrant his receiving It. W. O. MACHEADY. BREADWINNERS IN THE LAND OF THE AZTECS THE PEON OE MEXICO His Many and Curious Ways of Earning a Living. METHODS OF THE PEDDLER 'The Schemes of the Miserable Beg gars of the Mexican Capital. THEIR LOT IS A HARD ONE. Foreigners Are tho Only Source of Revenue They Have. There Is no city in the world, unless It be Constantinople, where the rich are so rich and the poor are so poor as In the City of Mexico. Nor is thtM-e any place where the clashes are so abruptly divided, for there seems to be little or no middle class of pure native population. The bus iness of tho metropolis is done by for ligners, almost entirely, and what native merchants there are seem to be of the higher class on tho one hand, who, though not so rich as to be able to live on their incomes alone, are still well-to-do, or, on the other hand, poor poons who strive, by means of a dingy, dirty little shop, to WATER CARRIER. eke out an existence. And it isa mooted question whether the native shopkeeper or the street beggar bas the better of the Struggle, with the odds in favor of the mendicant. There is a picturesqueness about the Mexican beggar. He is never twice alike, and whichever way the stranger turns he is certain to be greeted with a new ver sion of abject poverty. Cripples abound at every step, and it is not an uncommon thing to see a perfectly helpless cripple, a totally blind man, and a fat, sleek, healthy-looking man together, mumbling as they pass you, dragging the helpless one along, "Centavos, por Dios," and if the pennies are not forthcoming, you are almost certain to receive their curses, in dividually and collectively. San Francisco street, which, by the way, changes its name at every cross street in the business portion of the city, is the great rendezvous for beggars. The ala meda and the garden in front of the great cathedral are also favored spots, for, of course, all foreigners who are sight-seeing !n Mexico go there. And foreigners are the only source of revenue the beggars have, for no native Mexican or foreign resident of the city takes any notice of them, further than to push them rudely aside when they obstruct their way. At a street corner one afternoon, I waited patiently for a cripple to work his wHy along until he came to a bit of sunlight, in order that I might photo graph htm. I had dropped a couple of centavos into his empty hat a few min utes before. The hat appeared to be empty, as far as money was concerned, though in the apex of the crown there BANANA TEDDLEft. was a dirty bandana handkerchief. My fceggar reached the corner, pushing him fceJf along with painful slowness, for his jower limbs were useless, and there met another mendicant, who had shuffled hia way down the side street. It appeared to have been an appointment, for, as soon as they had settled themselves in a com fortable spot against the building, they proceeded to count their earnings. My beggar removed tho cloth from his som brero, and undernea-Ji it there was a pint' of small coin, at the least calcula tion. Ihe other fellow had ulmost as much, and they were busily engaged In counting it when I left them. In another place I met a singing gentleman who knew only one song. His voice was de cidedly warped and his costume much the worse for the wear, but, for a beggar, he was comparatively clean. I bribed him to stand for a photograph. His tshtrt was of white muslin, very ragged and tattered, and his trousers were made from a piece of canvas that had once served as a wagon cover. He was rheu matic and walked with two canes. He •would have carried three If he could have managed them. This Individual evidently Imagined that he was a wonder. He thought he could slnf, but a more doleful, miserable in harmonious chant I never want to hear. He imagined, too, that It pleased me, for, despite his rheumatism and his lack of canes, he was at the next corner be fore me, greeted me with a cordial smile of recognition and began to sing. The laziest man In the city, I believe. Is Known in this picture. - He was a healthy, strapping peon, but he was too tired to work. He was too weary, even, ito beg. so he trained a dog to earn centavos for nlm. He had doubtless seen tourists pho tographing pack animals in the streets, with their Immense loads, and conceived the idea that a pack-dog would be a nov elty. It Is the only case on record where in a native Is accredited with an Idea, He rigged up a pack-saddle from a piece of matting and lashed to It, across the dot's back, a couple of half-gallon atone jugs. A centavo secured his photograph as well as the dog's. It was well I pictured them when I did, for a few minutes later an impromptu dog fight wrecked the pack, broke the bottles and left the enterprising individual minus his stock In trade. The costume of this peon was raggedly pic turesque. His trousers had once belonged to a Mexican gentleman, but were now well ventilated. His vest was of a glaring yellow, with a scarf to match, tho latter* uf cheap calico. I'pon his feet he wore the peon sandal of Mexico, which is sim ply a sole of leather held in place by a leathern string across the instep and over the heel. A Salamanca sombrero shaded his swarthy face, and over his shoulder he carried a sack, into which, from time to time, he thrust ah sorts of odds and ends picked up from the streets. I could not ascertain that he had any other bus iness thnn showing his dog to "gringos" for whatever he could get out of them. There had been a great bullfight on Sun day in the Plaza del Toro de Tacubaya. A number of bulls had been slain by the great matadores from Spain and Havana, and a pictorial paper had been issued next day for sale on the streets, describing the contests. Little children sold these papers, crying out its name in Spanish at every corner. Their shrill, squeaky voices kept it up far Into the night, and theirs were the first of the awakening cries beneath the windows of the Iturbide, in the morn ing. One little fellow with a badly crushed foot hobbled along, selling his papers. He saw the man with the pack-dog photo graphed, and wanted to earn a centavo in as easy a manner. Note what a pained expression there is upon his face. His grimmy little hands hold out the paper so as to display its only illustration, that of a maddened bull tossing a matadore over the fence. It is a pity that tbe Illustra tion was not correct, but alas, none of the matadorps were killed. Beside the little fellow is a woman carrying a babe in a blanket. She is the boy's mother, and the centavo was in her pocket before the photograph was taken. It is a rule to exact payment in advance, in Mexico, for whatever is done for a foreigner. Ice cream is a luxury in the capital and it comes high. A little frozen stick of it, about as large as a stick of pep permint candy, though not as long, costs two cents. The hokey-pokey man and his little push cart would do well to leave City Hall Square, New York, and journey to Mexico for there is nothing so elab orate in the way of a perambulating ice cieam establishment as his. There, a peon takes a wooden pall into the ala meda and from It peddles his little sticks of cream to pi I sers by. The hokey-pokey man would prove an innovation to the Mexicans of the streets. The ice with which the cream is frozen Is obtained at a cost of much labor. The natives go up into the hills at night, (Mexico City is nearly G.OOO feet above the level of the sea), and sprinkle the leaves of the maguey plant with water. Ico forms every night and in the early morning hours it Is gathered. It Is in small pieces, to be sure, but it is enough for the pur pose. Artificial ice is manufactured in great quantities now, but of course the Idea of purchasing ice, even at small cost, is out of tho question with the peons. The merchant here pictured, seemed a happy, well satisfied fellow and during the two hours I watched him, must have taken In as much as ten cen tavos. Fruit peddling seems as popular a form of earning a livelihood In the streets of Mexico as any. Men, woman and children engage in it, and It is astonishing how cheaply thc-v sell their stock. This pho tograph shows a fruit vender at his stand near the cathedral, and he is a type of the ragg-id. dirty, hapless lot of which ha is a member. His zerape is of the cheap est material and his straw sombrero has long since lost Its shape, supporting trays of fruit. His stock In trade does not represent more than half a dozen centavos and he will travel about the streets ull day and often far Into the night to dispose of it. Another type of the fruit peddler Is here shown. He is in the wholesale and retail husiness unrl trots along at a live lier rate than the smaller vendors. He retails oranges, bananas, limes, prickly pears, gauvas, etc., as he goes, and when he meets a peddler who Is out of stock, he sells him what he needs from the sack he carries over his shoulders. His voice is louder than any of the rest and he has more calling out to do, for at every third or fourth call he shouts another to the small dealers, telling them MEXICAN PACK-DOQ. that they may replenish their stocks from his sack at moderate cost. The wholesale water dealer is higher up In the world of business, for he is a con tractor. He has arrange!] with the stores and shops on certain streets to bring them water from the public fquntalns. keep centavos to styip him In Ms work long their oyers fttled »" a t0 » u PP ly private houses WMh SrKikttig water. He Is com paratively weuVtOtfc. fo» he owns or rents a couple of bufrots, worth (6 each, has eight calabashes, worth 12 more, and has a business thai nets him faur or five realea per (Jay B*ove his expenses. He Is brighter, Bhftwder and fcetter adapted for business than his «lf°w peons, or he never wftald ha*e arisen t« the dignity of his p>esot pasilion. tt cost five enough for a snap-shot, but then, he was a hus,l*s*,.m|n. of more Importance than the ordinal Pe4*Ter. Another style of water carrier Is here shown. This procession enters the gates of the Mexican Central railway terminus every morning and a«a|a*«Yi. carTjng water largo an<l when filled must weigh several hundred pounds. But they sustain tho weight on their foreheads, and trot along as easily as if they were carrying bundles of feathers. It Is an odd sight to see these men, a. dozen or more of them at times, with their queer-shaped calabashes, harnessed t(i their heads with ropes of coarsely braided raw-hide. At the top of each calabash Is secured a measuring cup which holds about a gallon, and when they supply tmaU customers they charge a certain stipulated sum per measure. I have one photograph in my collection which Is somewhat out of the usual run of Mexican illustration. It shows how the Mexican woman washes clothes, and how hep ancestors washed them ever since they had any clothes to launder. Tho American wash-tub, much less the corru gated wash-board, is unknown there. A shallow wooden trough, such as is used in 'the New England States to catch sugar water in, serves Instead. The woman takes her primitive tub to a pool of water, kneels down on the bank, dips the gar ment in the water, lays it in the trough, rubs some soap upon it, and then scours It up and down the trough with her hands. Then she Immerses it again Into the pool, rubs more soap upon it, scours it some more, and so on, until she has cleansed it to her liking. Rinsing and bluing are not to be thought of, hence the muslin gar ments nave a delightfully yellow tinge that would not exactly suit an American housewife. An attempt was made to in troduce tubs and washboards a few years ago, I was told, but the women used the tubs to sit upon while they \yashed, and thought them a great invention. The washboards they didn't know what to do with, so 'they sat their native tubs upon them, to keep them out ot the dirt and mud. Did space permit, I might present illus trations of a score of different pursuits In Mexico, followed by the peons for a live lihood. The mosa, or man of all work, who is to be found everywhere upon tha streets, is willing to carry your valise, do WHOLESALE WATER DEALER. an errand, watch your horse, carry upon hia back any trunk or bale of merchandise heavy enough for a horse to any part of the city, carry your person across the muddy cross walk—anything, in fact, for a few centavos. He is a picturesque char-, acter wherever he is found, and appears in as many guises as there are minutes in the day. W. J. ROUSE. Chief Requisite. Theatrical Manager—You say you want an engagement to star in my theatre? Your name is not familiar to me. Have you ever starred? Would-be Actress—Never. "Where have you played?" "I never played on the stage." "Have you received any dramatic In-1 structlon?" "None whatever.'* "But you have, at least, studied the art? You are familiar with the works of the great dramatists, are you not?" "Never read a play in my life." "Good heavens! madam, what prepara tion have you, then, for going on thei stage as a star?" "I have had my photograph taken in i 140 different poses." The manager fainted. The Second Blow. Counsel—Well, after the prisoner gave you a blow, what happened? Prosecutor—He gave me a third one. Counsel—You mean a second one. Prosecutor—No, sir. I landed him the Becond one! The Chime, Thero Is an old French air, A little MBf of loneliness and grief— Simple, as nui ure, sweet beyond compare— And s.id past all belief. Nameless Is he that wrote The melody but this raurh I opine. Whoever made the. words was some remote franco ancestor of mine. I know tbe dungeon deep Where long he lay-and why he lay therein. And all his anguish, that he could not sleep, For conscience of a sin, 1 see bis cold, bard bed; T bear tbe chimes tbat jingled in hia ears. As bo pressed nightly with tbat wakeful bead A pillow wet wltb tears. O, restless little chime It never chanted—but rang its roundelay For each dark hour of tbat unhappy time. Tbat sighed Itself away. And over, more and more. Its burden grew of his lorn self a part. And mingled with memories, and woro Its way into bis heart. And there it wore tbe name Of many a town he loved, for one dear sage, • Into its web of music: thus ho cume Ula little song to make. Of all that ever heard And loved It for its sweetness, none but I Divined the clew that, as v. hiddeu word. The notes doth underlie. Tbat wall from lips long dead Has found Its echo In this breast alone! Only to me—my blood reineinbranee led— Ia that wild story knowu! Aud though 'tis mine by right Of treasure-trove, to ride and lav bare— A heritage of sorrow and delight The world would gladly share. Yet must I not unfold Forsvermore, ncr whisper late nor soon, Tbe secret tbat a tew slight bars tbus bold Imprisoned in a luue. For whan that littlo song Goes ringing lv my head, 1 know that he, My lucsltu. lono forefather, dust so long, AeUevts bl» Ufa In no. GMKGB DU KAURI NBWBBOS, CITY OF MEXICO. PERFECT GEMS THOSE LOVELY DINNER SETS Selling for a Mere Song DINNER SETS COMPLETE Pure White set complete $4.0* Rich Brown Decorated set complete. — 4.75 Dainty Harvest Decorated set complete.. 8.75 Decorated Gold Enameled and Wild Flower set complete 7.00 Gold Illuminated Decorated seteomplete exquisite 8 25 Decorated Toilet set 1.60 Decorated Toilet set, extra large size ... 2..85 Newest and richest Hliapes, de sign" and decorations). Don't fail lo see tjiem. Ciems of beauty. A Revemtion in PriGes —New Features AT (jrt Ml Ml If M STORES I3S NORTH MAIN, Inn Hll/IN [Q 3SI SOUTH SPRING, LUO HNULLLO . . DEPOT OF . . IllJir ■ EXPORT • BEER Old Saratoga Rye. Keystone Monogram Rye. Curtice Bros. Co.'s Delicacies. Waukesha Waier. Canadian Rye Whisky. Burkes Bass Ale. Burkes Guinness Porter. Burkes Old Tom Gin. Burkes Garnkirk Whisky. Burkes Old Irish Whisky. Moet & Chandon Champagne. Stagg's O. F. C. Whisky. Paul Masson Champagne. Napa Valley Wine Co.'s Goods. Cross& Black well s Delicacies SHERWOOD & SHERWOOD Sole Agents Southern California 216 N. Main St., Los Angeles Telephone 830. «And t>Sj tivelv cured. N otalfa I or pain. Nopavtfntxl well. \vriletfor book of home testimonial*! of wonderful curey—{ mostly in women's breasts, erriec: j SltTTMtFlmt Ltafs AMCtLKt, CAL. 1 Please send this to someone with Cancer,, OR SEND ME THEIR NAMES, DR. WONG HIM, who has practiced meat* cine In Loa Angeles for 20 years, anA! whose office ia at 639 Upper Main street, winy treat by medicine all diseases of women, men and childroa. The doctor claims that he hal r medics tbat are superior to all others as a specific for troubles of women and men. A trial alone will convince the siuk that Dr. WongHlm'sremedies are more efficacious than can be prescribed, Dr. Wong Him is a Chinese physician of prominence and a gentleman of responsibility. His reputation is more than well established, and all persons needing hie services can reW on his skill aud ability. A cure is guaranted in every case In which a re covery is possible. Herb medicines for sale. DR. WONG HI7VT HERB DOCTOR, 639 Upper Main Street, Los Angeles.. I>. O. BOX 227. STATION C. Los akc.ei.es, Cai., June 17, 1894. ( To the Pn»Lic: I have been suffering wit* piles and kidney trouble* for over live years, aud have tried several remedies, but all failed to relieve me. A short time since I tried Dr. Woug Him, 639 Upper Main street, and 1 aa now well and strong, and oonsider him a first, class doctor. Yours truly, W. H. HILLY SR. 235 S. Hill «t, Los Angeles, CaL Los Anoeles, June 9,1893. To th» Public: For over live years 1 hay» been troubled with nervous sick headache an . liver complaint, I didn't seem to find any net from the many doctors and medicines that , tried until 1 tried Dr. Wong Him, t)39 Vppsi Main street. lam now well. Yours truly. MISS If. G. BROCK, 48 Hlnton aye,, Los Angeles, CaL TO THE PUBLIC: Los ancei.es Cal., July zl, 1894, DR. WONG HIM, 630 Upper Main St. Dear sir: I take pleasure in adding my tea. tiiuony to the many you have aiready received. 1 will say that after taking your treatment fof catarrh of the head and throat, that I am now veil, and ask you to refer to me auy person that may feel skeptical and I will satisfy them as to tha efiloacy of your treatment. Yours truly, p. B KING, Attorney and Notary Public, Garvanza, CaL | JOB *1 I PRINTING ! ♦ Executed With Neatness and ♦ ♦ Dispatch at the $ I Herald Job Office | ♦ 309 W. SECOND ST. | i J. W. HART, nanager. | ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ ♦»♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦)♦♦»♦ VERONICA SPRING HEDICINAL WATER Nature's Remedy for Rheumatism, Constipation, Indiges tion, Diabetes, Kidney and Urinary Troubles. Wholesale and Retail. ALSO BALSAMILLO RErtEDIES A sere, safe cure for all female diseases. Local Home Treatment. For particulars, address C. H. MARBLE, Agent bo. California, a« «o. Broadway. LOS ANQXUtt 17