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Bridgeton pioneer. (Bridgeton, N.J.) 1884-1919, February 07, 1884, Image 2

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn87068192/1884-02-07/ed-1/seq-2/

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Lorrimer, leaving Mrs. Tregarthen, felt
like an emperor who has reconquered a re
bellious province. He was one of those
people who love success and hate failure
apart from consequences. He wanted what
he wanted—exactly that or nothing—and
if he had dug for water and struck gold,
like the famous Mr. Dow, he would have
felt aggrieved. He had gone out to secure
Miss Churchill, and the difficulties which
had been cast in his way only made her
services the more valuable to hope for, and
more precious when socured. “The boys,”
he said to himself, rubbing his hands
with vivacity, “will be at the Rabbit
Hutch. They shall have the nows at
once to begin with.”
When he alighted in the Strand and dis
charged tho coachman that person was as
tonished at the liberality of the payment
Lorrimer tendered. The manager swag
gered into the little room, beaming all
over; but tliero was no one to meet him
except the poet, who sat dejected, with his
folded arms upon the table.
“I’ve seen her, Marsh,” cried Lorrimer
extending both hands. “And what’s
more, my boy, she has consented to appear
“That is good news,” said the poet,
mournfully. “I congratulate you. Have
you made any definite arrangement with
her. Have you—helped her J"
“ To everthing the heart can wish for !”
said Lorrimer. “Delicacies, wino, money,
credit, and a coral for the baby. It was
tho coral that did tho trick, my boy.”
“The—the baby!” said Marsh, with a
bewildered air.
“ Ye-es,”said Lorrimer, rubbing his chin
with tho palm of his hand and regarding
the poet with a half-reflection of his look.
“A baby. I suppose it’s all right. To
tell you the truth, Marsh, I don’t inquire
into those matters. It’s a question of
IliVijLilV M1UU JlliOi
The poet stretched out a hand and struck
down heavily on the gong which stood be
fore him, and, on the appearance of the
waiter, demanded brandy in a manner al
most tragic.
“What’s the matter?” asked Lorimer.
“You are out of sorts, dear boy.”
“I am hipped,” said the poet, with a
sigh. “I am tired of the whole show, Lor
rimer, and I wish that the drum would
bang and the fiddles squeak no more. I
should like to see the curtain ring down on
the silly figures in the middle of the piece,
but I must sit it out, I suppose, like the
rest of us, though -I am sick of it, and
bored to death.”
w Ah !” said Lorrimer, “ you’re young,
dear boy, and that’s why you feel like that.
When I was your age I felt older than
Methusalem. By-and-by you’ll begin to
want to stick, and you’ll get to like the
piece very well.”
There are few things more offensive
to a young man than to be reminded of his
youth by a senior. And for a poet and a
man of fashion, who had just expressed the
yearnings of his soul (with what he felt to
be a very pretty conversational style), to
find himself compared with this florid vul
garian, who called Methuselah Methusalem,
was more than commonly galling.
Lorrimer had never felt what he felt.
The thing was impossible, but it was useless
to argue, and the young man sat in a
mournful and dignified silence, and sipped
his brandy and water, until the other
members of the conclave dropped in one
by one, and Lorrimer began to expatiate
upon his own good fortune and the great
things he was going to do for Miss
lt Look here,” said the manager, poking
at the rotund figure of the man of the cor
ner with his walking-cane. “Here’s a
chance for you. You used to want to
write a poetical comedy, you know.”
“ I trust,” said the man in the corner,
“that wo are not about to enter on a course
of recrimination. Why should I be re
minded of the follies of the past? I have
heard it whispered that a middle aged,
florid, fat man, who shall be nameless, had
once a desire to play Romeo.”
“No more of that, Hal, and thou lovest
me,” sain Lorrimer. “But if you can
write a poetical comedy, my boy, here’s
the women to write up to.”
“Sir,” said the man in the corner, “I can
write a poetical comedy as well as any
whale in Arctic waters can dance a sara
vv en, cried Liormner, “the man who
writes a iirst-rute poetical comedy for
Miss Churchill has made his fortune. I
know that much."
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said the
poet, rising wearily. There was some
protest against his going, but he pleaded a
non-existent engagement and got away.
He turned disconsolately out of the Strand
into Catherine street, and after many in
determinate windings, found himself at
the head of the dismal thoroughfare in
which Mrs. Tregarthen had lodgings. lie
stood a full minute in hesitation, and one
or two hurrying passengers hustled him.
At last he pulled his hat over his eyes,
sighed, cast out both hands with a little
gesture of surrender, and walked home.
On the afternoon of the day on which
Mrs. Tregarthen entered her now abode
ljorrimer called, and showed her two or
thfee newspaper paragraphs.
" The game is afoot already, madam,”
lie said; “ and, much as I was disappointed
at the moment, upon my word I’m begin
ning to be glad that you throw me ovor
last time. It has excited a certain curiosity
and interest, don’t you see. Only—you
mustn’t do it again, you know. My credit
and reputation are at stake. ”
Sho told him wearily that he
might rely upon her, but sho took
no interest in the preliminary puffs
of Which Lorriiner was so proud.
She glanced at them and put them aside
with so much languor that the manager
took fright a little.
“Upon my word,” he said, “I’m afraid
you’re not well. Or else,” ho added, si
lently, “you’re anything but swoet upon
the business.”
“I am very well,” sho answered.
“Be candid with me,” urged the mana
ger. “I may rely upon you? Now, may
I, really ?”
“You may rely upon me,” she said; add
ing, with more vivacity, “I could not re
pay your kindness so poorly as to disap
point you a second time.”
“There are managers,” said Lorrimer,
who in a case like this would take advan
tage of youth und inexperience. But I
know better; for my own sake I know
better. I offer you such terms, to begin
with, that you can’t improve your condi
t ion by running to anybody else. Before
now, madam, I have galvanized the town
into the temporary acceptance of a Duffer,
BHstriorric genius, wit IT Ixtrrfrarf behind
it, is guaranteed success. We shall take
up a permanent residenoe on the grounds of
Thomas Tiddler, madam, and shall pick up
gold and silver. But—will you forgive me
for hinting at it i—you must study, you
must work—there is nothing to be dione
without it"
“You shall not have season to find fault
with me in that respect,” said Mrs. Tre
garthen. “I shall be willingt» rehearse
as much as you please. ”
The prospect inspired her with inward
reluctance. There is a charm in the life
of a successful actress which any woman
can recognize for herself, even without the
aid of experience. But Miss Churchill
had her experience already, and a stage
career no longer showed all rose-color to
her. The stage-door haunter, the green
room haunter, the insolent puppy In the
stage-box or the dress-circle, the coarse
tongued stage-manager, the Banished
Duke, who, when on country tour con
trived to smell of onions, gin,
and stale tobacco all at once;
the tattle-tattle and scandal and
envy of the women, $nd the lidless
dragon eye of professional jealousy among
the men, had all combined to dismay and
disgust her. She knew that many of the
miseries that she had endured aforetime
would be modified. Lorrimer was an
amazing improvement on the traveling
manager, for instance. She oould rely
upon him, not merely for the payment of
her dues, but for manly protection if she
needed it; but at its best the inner life of
a theater was not her taste, and she looked
forward to a resumption of her old pur
suit with enthusiasm. Arthur would know
of It, too, hut there was nothing in the
world which could increase the
distance between herself and him.
She even thought, as she looked everywhere
for excuses, that her resumption of her old
life might help to bring peace to him by
completing their estrangement. He would
be able to despise her so heartily that he
would cease to regret her. There was no
form of mental self-torture which she ne
glected, and none seemed to afford her
much relief.
When she had been in her new quarters
a. duv nr two. ami had nmvirlod Korcalf
with a promising nurse for the baby, she
sat down and wrote a letter, which had for
its effect the return of her younger sister.
The sensible child had been sent away
to a small country boarding-school,
and the poor lady had expended almost her
last jewel in providing her with that tem
porary refugo from those stern ills of life
which had faced them both in their latest
lodging. She had hoped to make some
sort of refugo permanent for her, and to
that end she had written a novel, and had
sent it to two or three publishers, only to
find it rejected by them all.
“Oh!"cried the sensible child, behold
ing the baby for the first time, “what a
beauty! Oh, Clara, whose is it?”
“ It is mine, my dear,” said the mother,
smiling sadly as she bent over the infant.
“Isn’t it Arthur’s as well?” asked the
sensible child.
“ Yes, answered the wretched runaway.
“ It is Arthur's and mine! ” A tear fell on
the dimpled hand her own supported, and
she wiped it furtively away.
“ She is like Arthur,” said the child, ex- !
amining the baby with the look of a con- 1
noisseur. “ Her eyes are like Arthur’s.
Clara, what makes children li\te their
fathers and mothers? Am I like p apa? ”
“Yes, dear,” said the mother, bending
over the child and feigning to arrange somo
trifle of its dress to hide her eyes, “you ore
very like him.” t
“ Clara, the child asked, suddenly,
“didn’t you like <}orjbay bettur tnau Lon
don? ” i
“ Yes, dear much better.”
“I didn’t like the last place,” said the
child. “ It was very nasty, and the old
woman was nasty. This is better; but I
like Gorbay better, and Tregarthen is
lovely. Shall we go back to Tregarthen?
Why do the peoplo call Arthur the same I
name as the Island?
Her sister had not the heart to forbid her
these painful themes, but allowed her to 1
ramble on, and answered her when she |
could. In the midst of the child’s ehaltor <
Lorrimer was announced. 1
“I have brought an agreement, ma
dam,” he said, after a fatherly saluta
tion. “ I have had it drawn up by a 1
lawyer, and before you sign it I should ad- ]
vise you to consult a legal adviser on your i
own side. There’s nothing like having this 1
sort of matter fairly understood at the be- 1
ginning, and this little document binds us ]
both for three years. So, you see, it’s a i
question of somo importance, and you’d j
better be sure that your interests are prop
erly looked after. It’s in duplicate, you 1
observe; and all that is to be done is for i
mo to sign your copy and you to sign i
mine. Now, when can you see your law- t
yer?” ]
“ Let me see the document, Mr. e
Lorrimer,” she answered: and he handiner t
it to her, she read it through. “I j s
think I understand it well enough," she 1
said then; “ and I am sure I can trust you, '
sir." j <
“ Madame,” said Lorrimer, with the con- i
fidentinl family-adviser manner strongly !
marked, “trust nobody. Nobody. I i
know no more fatal habit than that of 1
confidence.” i
Mrs. Tregarthen smiled quite cheerfully i
—the first time for many a day. 1
“ I quite undcrstad the agreement,” she i
said; “and I am willing to bind myself I
by it. I think the terms you offer very i
favorable, sir, and I hope you will not have (
cause to repent them.” i
“ I have but seen you in throe charac- i
ters, madam,” returned the manager, i
approaching her, pen in hand; “but ]
there are not many men in the world who i
know their business better than George i
Augustus Lorrimer; and X am pretty suro ]
of my ground, madam—pretty sure of my i
ground.” (
At the close of this speoch ho handed her 1
the pen with a bow, and she signed her 1
name to the document which lay before her. 1
Lorrimer drew up a chair to the table,
seated himself, and assuming a pair of i
gold-rimmed eye-glasses, which were of no I
service to him, signed the duplicate like a i
stage emperor signing away a province. t
“There, madam!”he said, as he rose; i
“ we are now bound for a term of three 1
years, and nothing but death or mutual t
consent can separato us for that space of i
time.” f
Miss Lina, the sensible child, had ob- e
served all this with open eyes. I
“ Clara,” she said, in a whisper at her <
Bister’s ear, “ you haven’t married this s
gentleman, have you?” ]
“No,” answered Mrs. Tregarthen, aloud; <
“ this is a matter of business which you >
can not understand. ” i
The child caught her sister’s tone, and (
spoke aloud also; | l
“ But you’re not goingto marry him, are <
you Clara?” ]
In spite of herself Mrs. Tregarthen <
blushed scarlet: but Lorrimer, with an >
unctuous, stagey chuckle, stooped and pat- e
ted the child’s head.
“ No, my dear” he said, with a grand- 1
fatherly intonation. There is no intention 1
of t}iat_sort_ in your sisterfs _mind, I am It
sure. And for my part,” continued Lorri
mer, suddenly quitting the grandfatherly
attitude and manner, and bowing jauntily
at Mrs. Tregarthen, “I am quite a resolved
old bachelor, and not even Miss Churchill’s
inestimable charms could persuade me to
the sacrifice of liberty.” He saw vaguely
that this style of waggery was scarcely
suited to the lady’s taste, and became dis
concerted. “Though I am sure,” he
added, by way of atonement for a possible
blunder, “ that if any charms could pierce
a thrice-armed heart Miss Churchill owns
This being no better received than the
former compliment, Lorrimer became al
most sheepish for a moment, but speedily
recovering himself, departed, with the
stately grace and cordiality of a beau of
the old school, returning immediately, with
a legal air, to secure the document signed
by Mrs. Tregarthen, the which he folded
and pocketed, with a business-like frown,
and then relapsing into smiles again bowed
himself away finally.
“ That is a very funny gentlemen,” said
Miss Lina gravely.
“ He is a very good man, my darling,”
returned her sister, “and has been very
kind to both of us.”
She was so unworldly that no touch of
suspicion was in her mind when she thought
of Lorrimer and the baby’s coral. It is
probable that she would have conceived
that device to be no less than diabolical if
she had pierced its meaning, but the man
ager was blown out with pride at his own
knowledge of human nature whenever he
remembered the expedient.
“ Lorrimer,” he would say, wagging his
jovial head, “ you know your way about,
dear boy. It was tho coral that did the
trick. You are a bachelor, Lorrimer, but
you are not unacquainted with feminine
human nature.”
But, after all, there had been much
genuine kindness mixed un with hi.
ness motives, and a woman might be
trusted to find out os much and to be
grateful for it.
When he had Miss Churchill’s signature
at the foot of his agreement, and the docu
ment was once in his pocket, Lorrimer ex
ulted and beamed. He went about all
day to places where he was likely to meet
the men he wanted—shady old public
houses which have outlived their reputa
tion, now, and no longer give shelter to
dramatic critics—and, drawing one of
them aside when found, would hum a
secret in his ear, a secret confided
as a particular favor to him alone,
and would then hie away to an
other, with unfailing industrious men
dacity, liming his twigs for the
British public. Next morning, by the
separate influences of the gentlemen whom
Mr. Lorrimer had primed, the whole world
was made aware of the facts that an en
gagement had been entered into by the
Miss Churchill, who had once disappointed
London playgoers, to appear at the Mirror
Theater, and that she had entered into a
three years’ contract with the manager of
that favorite house.
But Lorrimer did more than this, for he
was a master in his way, and could pull as
well as any man alive. Artful paragraphs
went down to the provincial papers (which
were not so well oft for London news as
:hey are now. when every one of them is
evel with the great journals of the capi
;al), and these paragraphs were artfully
iransplanted to the columns of the metro
politan organs, until the bruit of Miss
Churchill’s coming was in all men’s ears.
Lorrimer kept her constantly supplied
with the news of his achievements in this
way, and frightened her more than he
guessed. Every one of the manager’s pre
immary bangs at the drum sent a nervous
'ear through her heart, and she had a pre
nonition of failure and disaster. She had
10 stage passion to buoy up her sinking
ipirits, and the memory of her husband’s
icorn for the business upon which she had
t second time embarked would have made
ler run away from the enterprise alto
gether but for her own native loyalty and
he thought of her child and sister. It
vas to be all so different, too, from
ler actual experiences of the stage. She
vould no longer contrast with the failures
if the provincial theaters, but would have
0 move side by side with the best actors of
.jondon and one of its best actresses. For
.orrimer, in his own phrase, was ‘ ’going
'or the gloves,” and was getting together a
licked company. He meant to have such
1 glare anil blare of triumph in London
hat when the time came for the provinces
ilaygoers should bo on the tiptoe of ex
lectation there, and then, with his one star
•nd a cheap scratch company, he would
gather in money by the hatful.
The company being once got together,
rere rehearsed severely. The pale gentle
roman, young and sad, did not promise
■ ell for the ideal Rosaiind of any one of
hem when she first came among them.
!ut the spirit of the scene began to lift her,
«u. wutjii wnanuu, even in nis irocK eoa&
nd tall hat—most un-Orlando like—was
upposed to have overthrown tho boastful
.Testier. and she dropped the meaning
rords, ‘“You have wrestled well, and
verthrown more than your own ene
aies,’ ” the sweet voice and perfect in
onation lingered on the player’s ears like
nusie, her figure grew all grace, and her
ace all sympathy. Rosalind trod the
tage in Victorian attire, and the brightest
md tenderest of Shakespeare’s conceptions
ook concrete form for all who heard and
aw. This triumph was achieved at the
irst rehearsal, and the report of it raised
ixpectation high among those who inter
isted themselves in the matter. Actors are
i jealous race, and as a consequence there
8 no class of people who praise one another
o unreservedly; for jealousy is not a
iretty passion, and its owner will geucr
■Uy go out of his way to hide it.
!o when Mrs. Tregarthen’s com
leers had once made up their
finds that she would inevitably outshine
hem all, they gave her the most unstinted
nidation everywhere, and the whole
heatrical world got into a ferment about
In the earlier rehearsals the old stagers
rent through their work anyhow, mum
ling inarticulately, and cutting down the
tmnortal sentences without remorse in
heir hurry for tho cue, but Rosalind would
ot mutilate her lines, and could not, for
er life, speak them at all without speaking
liem as they ought to be spoken. It came
bout, therefore, that from the central
iguro of the pioce a gentle inspiration
hone out to all the rest, until
hey began to reflect; and the dull
st old stager began to work with
omething of his youthful spirit. Lorri
ner saw this and exulted. He worked as
nly a theatrical manager has to work,
ntreating, arguing, persuading, command
ng—employing sweetest suasive art on
lelia' with more than Chesterfield’s polite
less begging leave to differ with old Adam
r Touchstone on some point of detail; or
louring fourth wild streams of passionate
bjurgation upon the carpenters. Ho was
ibiquitous, and seemed, like Ariel in the
tonn, to divide and burn in many places.
But all things have an end, and at
I'ligth the final rehearsal was over, the
ist note of tho music arranged and prac
icod, the last costume perfected, the
last stroke of the paint-brush dry,
and even the clumsiest super had
learned his final lesson. The great night
was upon London, and only a million or
two of its inhabitants were altogether un
moved and apathetic. The house was
crowded. The destiny of the pit was not
yet decreed, and the most sympathetic and
most experienced of play-goers and truest
of play-lovers were not scornod. The old
sters were there, grave, almost severo, pre
pared to utter judgment. The professional
critics were in the dress-circle, where they
could really see the piece and were not
half brained by the cymbals and
the cornet in the enlr'act, as they
are in these advanced days. Beauty,
wit, fashion, and old experience
filled the house, and Miss Churchill, who
had long since been dressed, and eager in
her nervous terror to face them all and get
the ordeal over, was led by the triumphant
yet anxious Lorrimer to take a peep at the
crowded benches and tho wide sweep of
the glittering circles. She went back to
her own room quaking, and when she tried
to think of her part she discovered that
she had forgotten her first words. She re
ferred to them, and they looked at her un
familiary from the manuscript. "I show
more mirth than I am mistress of.” Great
heavens! She had to be mirthful, and in
the presence of that terrible crowd.
She had heard of this swift and sudden
disease many a time, and knew it by the
name of stage fright; but sho had never
guessed what it might mean until now. It
numbed every faculty of the mind. She
could think of nothing, and remember
nothing. It left her physically helpless,
too, and reduced her to a very statue of
The orchestra was industriously scraping
and blowing its way to the final musical
spasm of tho overture, and she felt that
tho time of disgrace and despair was near.
The music ceased, the liouso applauded, a
bell rang thrice, the house applauded
anew, and the time of disgrace and des
pair was nearer still. In a little time
there came a tap at her door, and
the call-boy demanded Miss Churchill. She
must needs ■ go—there was no help for it
&he took a nasty sip of water, and walked
like an automaton to her place in the
wings. Celia was there already, and
slipped an unsympathetic arm about her
waist, in readiness for the business of the
stage, for they went on twined together
like two of the three Graces. The band
finished its little intermediate flourish, and
somehow Rosalind was on the stage, with
a sound like the noise of the sea coming
into her ears, and she was ready to sink
and die. Celia spoke:
“I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be
merry 1”
The two women melted apart from their
embrace at this point, and Rosalind stood
alone. There was a pause. It came out
afterward that it was no longer than it
well might have been, but to Miss Church
ill’s heart it was quite a gulf of time.
Then—but how it came about she never
knew—she found courage and memory to
speak, and before the first little speech was
over her stage flight had flown at the re
assuring sound of her own voice, and she
knew by an instinct which is common to
actors of both sexes that the
house had settled down with that new
resolve to listen, which is the re
sult or a first favorable impression. Be
fore she had taken the chain from her own
neck to give it to Orlando she had won
every heart in the house. Lorrimer stood
at the wing to welcome her with rubicund
smile and outstretched hands, and the
house thundered behind her. It was a
night of triumph, and the triumph mount
ed in n ctpndy crescendo. The actress cour
tesied her acknowledgments again and
again before the curtain, and then went
home and cried bitterly, with fame and
fortune at her feet. While she cried half
a score of practiced pens were running
nimbly in her praise, and half a score of
critical intelligences were doing their best
not to be run away with, and some of
them were not succeeding, as the result of
the next day declared. Miss Churchill’s
name was newly blown abroad — Miss
Churchill’s fame was established and her
fortune made.
But Mrs. Tregarthen had defied her hus
band, and now began to see all manner of
possibilities which might have come about
to reconcile him, if she had not made this
fatal step. A day before all these possi
bilities had been impossible, but now she
believed in them. She was unstrung by
the night’s excitement, and had real cause
for sorrow and self-blame enough. To
shine in the eyes of the world, to charm,
to dazzle, to be applauded by listening
crowds, to have her comings and goings
chronicled in the public prints as
if she were a queen—what was all this
Itmrlum oVtn Tsnrl lrve*- A nthnnl
Curious that any one human being should
mean so much to any other, and yet be no
wiser, no handsomer, no more loyal, val
iant, tender, than a round million of his
It becamo known that there was some
sort of secret understanding afoot between
the poet and the man of the corner.
They were found together in the
small chamber in the Strand holding
earnest converse, which was sus
pended on the arrival of any chance new
comer. Callers upon the man of the cor
ner found the poet in his chambers, and
callers upon the poet, in his more artistic
ally furnished apartments in tho West, met
there the man of the corner.
They sat together on a summer’s day,
with the mellow sunshine struggling
through cobwebbed windows, and showing
tho dust upon the threadbare carpet and
tho battered furniture. There were foils
and singlesticks, and boxing-gloves upon
the walls, and a gun and a fishing rod or
two in the corners of the room. The man
of tho corner lounged collarless in slippers
and dressing-gown, and the poet sat at the
table, pen in hand, with a pile of manu
script before him.
“1 think it will do, Smith,” said the
poet, doubtfully.
“ My bard.” said the slippered lounger,
“it will do. It is not Shakespearean, but
it will do. We are humbler than we were
a year ago, Marsh, and the reviewers did
us good. They humbled us, and chastened
our style a bit, and we know how many
poetic beans make five. We used to think
it took fifty, didn’t we?”
“ I fear I did,” said the poet with a
blush. “Youv’e been very kind to me,
Smith, and I’m immensely obliged to you.”
“Tho wounded is the feeling heart,” re
turned the other. “I will tell you a se
cret. I, William John Smith, writer of
melodrama and wholesale merchant in mur
der, was Horace Montmorenci. ”
“ You? ” cried the poet.
“ I. None other. It was this hand that
wrote 1 The Demogorgon. ’ It was upon
this head tho scalping-knife of the review
er fell. I suffered before you. I roastod
at the fire of public scorn and laughter for
a year. When I saw you scalped and
bleeding at the stake 1 felt for you, and ,
as each red reviewer buried his tomahawk
one heart was moved to pity. It was mine.”
The poet arose and shook hands. “Wo
are brethren In misfortune,” he said, with
a somewhat ghastly smile.
“ Respect my awful secret,” said his
companion. “Let us change the theme.
Can we brighten the last act with a mur
der! I have never made so long a literary
journey without blood. Let us sacrifice a
victim to propitiate the gods. ”
“Well,” said the poet, “ I'm afraid wo
must leave the gods unpropitiated. A
murder would be a little out of place in a
political comedy—wouldn’t it? Eh?”
“A suicide? a divorce? a bigamy? a
forgery? I pine for my accustomed diet.
I will have a fuller-flavored villain than
common in my next.”
“Upon my word, Smith,” cried the poet,
earnestly, “ I wouldn’t do that sort of work
if I were you. There is not a lovely fancy or
a graceful line here,” laying his hand upon
the manuscript, “that isn’t yours. There
is not a subtle touch of observation or of
human nature that isn’t yours. I brought
you a feeble, rickety child, and you have
tended it and nurtured it, and you give
me back a beautiful woman. Why should
a man like you waste himself on melo
“I get an honest living,” said the
lounger. “I reward virtue and I lash
vice. I never leave an unrepentant vil
lain happy or a good man in adversity.
And I am at home in [my work, and I can
do it. As for what you are pleased to say
about my share in this work, let me tell
you the truth. I am an old literary crafts
man, and a pretty good one. You are a
young literary craftsman, and your hand
is not yet firm. But if you will be humble
about it, and will not take pride in your
self, and will not think that genius is
everything and patient labor nothing, you
will do work I cannot do and never could
have done, and you will give harmless
delight to many people, and be remembered
for a generation or two, Only—labor, pa
tience, humility—humility, patience labor.
These, my poet, make talent pass for gen
ius very often, but they make genius re
The poet sat silent for awhile.
“And you think,” he said, after this
tiqiica << thnt wa ltnrl hpftor conrl it tn
“ Certainly. With the stipulation that
vve depend, not upon his judgment, but
upon that of Miss Churchill. I have
written a good deal for Lorrimer, and I
respect his judgment on my own wares.
He has a rare palate for a murder, but the
flavors of this work are too delicate for
him. I shall tell him so.”
“ If she will but undertake the part,”
cried the poet, “what a creation she will
make of it!”
“ She is a great actress,” said the other,
“and her style grows riper. But have
you noticed, Marsh i I meet her here and
there on Sunday evenings. She is success
ful, but she is not a happy women. Her
sorrows are not querulous, but resigned. ”
“I have not noticed it,” said Marsh. I
only see her upon the stage. ”
“ Do you know, ” said the writer of
melodrama, “I admire her infinitely.
Her blameless private life, her charity_
she has an ill word for nobody, not even
for the fools who pester her because she
is an actress. I have felt once or twice
an electric sensation in the right foot, indi
cative as I believe, of a desire to boot a noble
swell or two who hover in her train. But
to give way to that desire would only cre
ate a scandal, and the snobs must bo al
lowed to flutter until she moets some good
fellow who will marry her and take her
away from the theater.”
“ That would bo a loss to the theater,”
said Marsh.
“And again to her,” returned his com
panion. '* No woman can live In art and
be happy. Her place is by the hearth.
She must have a man to waste her affec
tions on, and children to suffer for bofore
she can really be at peace.”
“ Shall I send on the play to Lorrimer,
or will you? ” asked the poet, after a min
ute’s pause.
“ I will,” said the playwright. “ It is so
much more your work than mino that I
can praise it with the better face.”
“And I shall hear the verdict from
you ?”
“ Just so. Are you going ? Lorrimer
shall have it at once. Good-by.”
“I am going down into Berkshire,” said
the poet, shaking hands and taking up his
sombrero; “but my letters will be for
warded. Good-by.”
William John Smith, being left alone,
lit a pipe, and took a tumbled
heap of papers from a drawer. Then he
selected a pen, sat down at the table with
the tumbled papers before him, and tried
to think about work. But the day was
languid, and he wa3 lazy, and in a minute
or two he threw down the pen and re
signed himself to his fancies. ' Ronald
Marsh came uppermost.
nuiiara doun, saia tne idler, staring
abstractedly out of file window, “ you
have done that young man a power of
good. The sentiments you so eloquently
express in conversation and so per
sistently ignore in private life are
telling on him. And ho wanted that
hiding from the reviwers. It did him
good, and helped to drive out of
him the most intolerable puppyism with
which any man of my time has been af
flicted. There are the makings of a good
fellow in him, and they will not be
Unconscious of this criticism, the poet
went down to Berkshire, leaving the dusky
whirl of London fashion behind him, and
awaited (with what patience he could find)
Miss Churchill’s judgment on the poetical
comedy. It fell upon a day that he set
out, long-cloakod, long-haired, and som
breroed, for a country walk, and being
athirst and weary, stepped into an inviting
little roadside inn and asked for sherry and
soda. Tho room in which he sat was com
fortably shaded and prettily dappled by a
tew stray flecks of sunlight. There were
roses at the diamonded casement, the win
low was open, birds twittered about the
Helds outsido, a hostler in the yard to
the right made a soothing noise of hiss
ing and splashing as he washed tho legs
of a farmer's cob, and it was difficult to
believe that there were griefs, or heart
burnings, or jealousies, or troubles of any
sort upon the surface of a planet which
cwried so peaceful and quiet a heaven of
rest as this.
“Hostler I” said a voice outside, “see
that their hoddity in the cloak and wide
iwako goin’ in just now ?”
“I seo him, sir,” replied the hostler.
“ It’s my lady’s brother-in-law from Lon
don, sir.”
“ My eye !” said the first speaker, “he’s a
caution, ain’t he? What’s he wear his
bair that long for? Like a gell’s, ain’t
“Well, you see, sir,” said tho hostler, in
i philosophic and reflective tone, “ there’s
x sort as would sooner bo stared at and ■
laughed at than not stared at all.”
“That’s a rare good by-word, hostler ” I
’aid the other. “You shall have a pint
for that, anyway.”
f Tote continued next week.]
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No. 11 North Laurel St., Bridgeton.
Philadelphia & Reading R. R.,
New Jersey Southern Division.
Commencing October 28th. 1883.
For Bridgeton Vineland intermediate stations.
Leave New York, footof Liberty St., 1.30 p. m.
7.39 a. m for New York, Newark, Elizabeth,
South A mboy,Long Branch,Red Bank.
Farmingdale, Toms River, Waretown
Barnegat, Whitings, Atsion, Winslow.
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7.39 a. m., 2.05 p. m. for Vineland, Winslow
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9.o« a. m. 0.54 p. m. for Bay Side and intermedi
ate stations.
Leave Rridgcton 7.39 a. m.,
(Vine Street Wharf.)
For Bridgeton and way stations, 4:30 p. m.
Above trains connect to and from Atlantic
City and all points on the Camden and Atlantic
K- “• „ „ C. Cl. HANCOCK,
It. BLODGET?.e§^r-a"dTl0l£0t Agent
_J- E, WOOTTEN.Gcn. Manager.
On and after October 1,1883.
Trains leave Bridgeton as follows:
„n*;,°firi?“ladclphi;a, and Way Stations, at 7.00,
anrl 8.10 a. in., and 3.10 p. in.
For Salem Brunch 8.10 a. m. and 3.10 p m
and oJoTm " id dpN^V Y°,k via Camden- *-00
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and°3.10pfm CC‘ty and Cape M‘iy, 8.10 tl. n.„
Leave Philadelphia 8.00a. m„ 3.30 and 5.40 p m
Leave Salem 7.40 a. in. and 2.25 p. m. 1
Leave Sea Isle City, 0.55 a. m. and 4.20 p. m.
Connecting Railroads.
i Trains leave Vineland for Millville. 0.43 and
10.06, a. in., 4.40 and 7.08 p.m., and on Sunday
9.20 a. m.
For Cape May leave Vineland, 10.06 a. m 4 40
P. III. On Sunday, 9.29 a. m
J. H. WOOD, Gen’! Pass. Agent.
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the way of making more
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■■ ■■ Aw From Am. Journal of Medicine.
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sufferer who may send their express and P.O. address
We advise any ono wishing a euro to address
Dr. AB. MESEROLE, No. yo Julia (5t.» New York,
jan 2i-4t

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