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A F A RTING SfOQKSTION.
From the Bouton Budget.
•‘l’m going away to bo none some time
Abroad; but I’d rather much stay ;
If travel I must, in my own native clime
I much prefer traveling to-day.
••Mamma now thinks I am looking ill,
And need most a change of air.
Absurb! 1 never felt I tetter —(till,
1 may like the climate there.
'••I really dialike to leave behind
, My friends—yon know ottr set.
iA pleasanter you could not find—
Not one will I forget.
•‘We’ll go to Germany and France.
. To Italy and Spam;
Perhaps, who knows!” with mournful glance,
“We may Dot meet again.”
••Oh. yes, we will,” be said, ‘‘Too bad
You’re going, for we'd such
A pleasant time; it seems so sad—
We’ll miss you very much.”
•‘You mustn't miss me—try not to—
For that would give me pain;
aßut hope that when my Journey’s through,
We’ll surely meet again.”
*‘l can’t help missing you,” said he,
••But give to me the right
(To guard you. None, I'll guarantee,
Will Miss you from that night.”
tGIUSEP 1* IIV .A..
A LOMBARD EPISODE.
BY OSCAR VAVASEUR.
\ Copyrighted ISS?.]
A confusion of sunny hair, framing an
|r>ral face, full of poetry—innocent ex
pression my tutor termed it, perhaps more
properly—large ingenuous eyes which
seemed to have drawn their color from
tier native say, and a form as perfect al
hnost as Milo’s sculptured dream. Such
-was the peasant girl 1 met in a Lombard
near Pavia five years ago.
Though the recollection of the blonde
fheauties ol St. Petersburg was still fresb
my memory, though I bad worshiped
(the black hair, fair skin and damask
rneeksof the Viennese belles a month be
fore, and had just escaped by flight from
the spells of the dark flashing eyes of
Andalusia’s ravishing daughters, i was
(truck with this simple lass. Perhaps it
fvas became Of my partiality for blondes
hat she stood singular among a hundred
C'-un-browned daughters of the South. One
f her parents—which, I do not remem
ber, if I ever learned—was a German, and
lienee her complexion. This penchant
Sin ay have been partially the cause for
■my admiration , for in the water color
before me 1 fail to discover suili
iclent beauty to awaken a feeling of inter
test. Yet I never considered her features
Wrtlsticallv correct. It was that remark
able expression which I have mentioned
•before, her superb figure, and ber native
elegance of manner and deportment that
ijaecinated me.
Our landlord’s son bad driven us over
Ao a fair in another village, a few miles
jfrom where we were etopping, and
the was standing in front of one of the
Wjuaint booths laughing at the buffoon-
Wry of some mountebanks wuen 1 first
waw her.
My tator laughed when I pointed her
aouttohlm.
* “You forget Count W 's daughter,”
the said, “you told her on your knees that
she was—”
I put my hand ovsr his mouth and pre
sented his further recalling that sweet
but foolish dream of oallow youth.
It was customary for my traveling cora
xianion to become sarcastic on such oc
casions. Fancy a young man—l empha
sise the last word—l was 18, cumbered
an Old Man of the Sea for a tutelary
kdeity, who insists on catecblßing him on
Imoral philosophy or ancient history at
tthe point where compliment impercepti
bly passes to sentiment In conversa
tion with a lady. . Add to that the
■isculiar susceptibility ot the victim
bad you can readily conceive how ter
frible must be the torture in having suoa
T* mentor.
i “Whatever I said to Mile. W
{said, “cannot alter the faet that
he girl before me Is exceptionally
terettv.”
f The professor, as he loved to be called,
fwas rapidly becoming purple in tbe face,
Cs I still held his mouth dosed. For tbe
ame reason be could not speak and so
(Winked three times, like old Nortfer, to
#igmfv bis assent to my declaration, on
which I withdrew my hand.
“You mean Giuseppina, the pale girl?”
•Asked Giacomo, our driver.
“Yes,” I repled.
i “All foreigners think her pretty, but—”
He shrugged his shoulders to signify
.that be did uot agree with their taste, a
Uriok that he bad probably learned I rom
Wome French tourist.
“You know her then I” I queried, not
feeding the deprecatory action, and anx
uoiis to speak with the girl irom mere
curiosity that l might be enabled to judge
let her character.
(_ “Oh. yes; she is my cousin. See, that is
tny sister Angiola, ber with the velvet
bodice, that is speaking with her.”
“And you can bring me to her ?”
Before Giacomo could reply, the pro
fessor somewhat alarmed broke lu, auil
‘addressing me, said:
“There are some very line ruins in this
peigbborbood that show us in what man
tier the masters ol Como lived. We must
them to-day and we had better take
•this opportunity and drive tdere now.”
“1 am not particularly interested in
antique beauty to-day,” 1 replied. “My
caprice just now leads my admiration to.
V ards youthful living loveliness. I decline
"1o go.”
This defiant speech astonished the pro
fessor.
“You must—” he began.
“I leaped from the vehicle.
“If f must 1 am Interested to know who
(•hall compel me,” 1 said. “Angiola shall
rake me acquainted with this Giusep
|iiia, and I shall he answerable lor my
own actions.
ANGIOLA BID NOT INTRUDE.
Since the attempt bad been made to
thwart me I was determined on meeting
the girl, not earing whether tbe result
should repay me (or my trouble, but In
order that I might assert the indepen
dence of my manhood. Ths good old man
bad been obarged to prevent mo getting
Into mischief during the two vearw I was
given to travel on tbe Continent—from
foolish or disreputable affaires d’amour,
fee was especially directed to protect me,
but tbe weak, kind-hearted tutor saw it
was useless to contend witb Ills reltac
lory pupil. He was passionately fond of
antiquities, and really longed to see ip •mi
relies of ancient Lombard maauiuueliice.
and so rar did he forget his solemn duty
that he abandoned his precious charge—
au empty vessel you say—and went off
without me.
Half an hour later 1 was strolling
among the bootus and pressing tnrougn
the crowds with Giuseppina on my arm.
Angiola, sensible girl that she was, soon
saw that her company was not required
and did not intrude herself on us. How
proud the simple maiden was, how her
bosom heaved and her voice thrilled as
she spoke blushiDgly to her triends as they
passed her.
She lingered near one of the stalls
where the gewgaws displayed were of a
more costly and magnificent character
than elsewhere. I presented her with
earrings and breastpin. I’rudence for
bade me adding a linger ring. Then ber
eye rested on au ornamental dagger with
a hilt of pearl and ivory aud Oiade ot
lineiy tempered steel—such an one as Lom
bard girls still wear in their garters.
Her look betrayed ber spoken desire,
and 1 purchased tbe pretty weapon lor
her. Her eyes danced with delight as
she received it. 1 tell it to be a strange
present, hut it was more valuable and
more acceptable than the trinkets which
preceded it. As she stooped to thrust it
iiisideher garter, the bloom again mantled
her cheek and suit used her throat.
To my mind she was then the personi
fication of maidenly innocence and
beauty.
Ten minutes atterwards one of Glusep
pina’s Irieuds spoke to her. 1 thougut
Marietta the prettiest ol the dark damsels
1 bad seen, aud said so.
“W ill you not come with us?” 1 asked
of ber. An indescribable look settled
on Gluseppina’s countenance.
“1 shall be very glad,” my new friend
said, delighted at tne invitation. Shu
would have linked ber arm in that of
Giuseppina. but the latter made ail im
patient gesture, seeing which 1 offered
Marietta my right arm, and she took it in
hers.
1 though Giuseppina must be ill, she
was bo pale, and suggested that we
should sit down in one ol the booths. She
refused me, and as 1 could not draw her
into conversation beyond monosyllatiiu
replies to my questions, 1 talke •
with Marietta who chatted enter
tainingly. The latter lived in the village
where 1 was stopping, and 1 suggested
that she should accompany me in, as
Giacomo had promised to stop lor me
at au appointed place, and there would
be still an unoccupied seat which she
could have.
Then Giuseppina remembered she was
going ou a visit to her cousins. There
was but one seat at my disposal, aud
Marietta bad accepted my invitation. 1
thought ol engaging another vehicle, but
my lair friend would not allow It, and
gloomily said she would find a convey
ance. A moment later she pretended
to recognize someone at a distance
and leaving me disappeared iu tbe
crowd.
1 was waiting for supper in the sitting
room which had been placed at the dis
posal ol the professor and uie when a
timid knock came to the door. 1 told the
visitor to come in aud Giuseppina en
tered. How changed she was since 1 had
seen her a few hours before. Tbe expres
sion of gentle womanliness which bad
captivated me was gone from ner face,
now of a cadaverous hue. Her eyes
flashed beneath her knitted brows and her
bloodless Udb were firmly eet. I noticed
that she carried the dagger which 1 bad
given her in the figured velvet belt around
her waist.
She carefully closed the door after
her.
-Why did you give your arm to Mari
etta ?” she asked suddenly.
“Is she not your friend?” I re
turned
“She was my friend, but I hate her
now.”
The manner in which this was hissed
from between her set teeth aud the look
which accompanied her words left no
doubt ss to the intensity ot the feeling.
1 was embarrassed, for I did not com
prehend yet tbe girl’s meaning.
“I am truly sorry,” I said apologeti
cally, “that I should have placed you In
a false positlou, but there seemed to be
notblng amiss when you Bpoke to each
other, or I should not have invited her to
accompany us.”
“Why did you call her pretty in my
presence? Why did you turn tromme to
praise her? aud wny did she dare to speak
to you?”
“Surely,” I began, “you cannot blame
me,”
“Oh, no; 1 do not blame you.”
The old look came back, softer and
brignter than before, but it was but a
momentary transition, for tbe expression
of ineffable hatred returned as she cried
with fiendish vehemeuce, “But 1 hato ber
—I hate her to death.”
Her hand nervously played about tbe
ornamental hilt of the dagger, but while
the action was alturwurd forcibly recalled
to my memory in connbctlou with that
never-to-be-forgotten scene, it did not im
press me at tbe time.
“Ob, don’t be foolish,” I said in
a conciliatory tone. “1 don’t know how
she may have offended you before; but
you cannot blame her for tbe little
episode of to-day. It was my fault, not
hers.”
“But you do not like her so well as you
like me?”
All ranoor bad left her naturally
soft voice, tbe primary expression again
Illumined ber countenance, and there
was something plaintive iu her
sweet smile as she auxiously awaited my
answer.
“Ot course not,” I replied, hoping to
complete her happiness.
She threw her arms about me and lay
ing her bead on my shoulder relieved her
emotion in tears. 1 was stroking her
hair when a footstep at the door
earned her to stait. The professor en
tered with a bouquet, composed of com
mon white and red roses and a reiv tulips,
in bis hand.
“That young girl, Marietta, who rode
ov*t with us to-day sent you these,” he
said, arranging them in a vase.
Giuseppina uttered a vindictive cry
and flow from the room. Supper was
brought a moment later, aud as 1 eat
down to eat 1 felt Inclined to laugh at the
girl’s grievance.
I sat on tbe piazza of our Inn, which
gloried in tbe title of Hotel della Lom
bard!!', watching tbe magnified golden
sun descend behind the blue mountains
on the l’iedmontese oorder which formed
the horizon. Tbe dazzling sheen cast by
the gorgeous disk ou the Tiulnio, which
the glisten rendered visible lu the dis
tance, seemed borne along on the narrow
stream until it bcoatno lost in the shade
ot the luxuriant loliags mi either bank.
The pro lessor was packing up, as, having
rusticated long enough, we were to start
for Pavia, the city ot a hundred towers, in
the morning. 1 was dreaming—dreamlug
of home as my eyes absorbed tbe beauty
ol the scene before me.
1 was startled by hearing my name
pronounoed in an eager undertone and
looked around. Betnre me stood Oluaep*
pina, but so terribly changed as to lie
scarcely recognizable. Her buir was dis
heveled and fell about ber lace; her taa
iu res were pale and dlsiortod and bore an
expression of mingled pain and tenor; her
eyes were staring and bloodshot, and her
clothing was disordered.
bbe droppod on her knees bofore me and
seizing my band oovered it with kisses
and tears.
“Oh, signor,” she exclaimed, “I am so
glad to have tound you. She will never
trouble tis again.”
1 raised her tenderly up believing that
| Ibe poor girl's nerves bad been over
i worked ami that she was the victim of
I hysteria. Kindness I thought mighti-n-e
i her mental agony, so 1 gently brushed
, hack ber clustering hair with my hand
I aud imprinted a klseou her forehand. She
smiled faintly, and the light returning to
bar countenance was like that of (ho sun
) iMnelrating a storm cloud
SAVANNAH MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY. APRIL 3, 1887—TWELVE™aTH®.
“You are so good, so very good
tome,” she murmured; “you did not
love her, but sha will never trouble us
again.”
“My dear Giuseppina,” I said gently,
“1 do not understand you. Whom do you
speak of? Whom do you say I never
loved?”
“Marietta.”
“Why, my child.” 1 laughed, but will
ing still to humor her, “you know I have
not loved any one lor a month.”
tide drew away from me with a startled
cry, then threw herself back m my ,-rJi)
and. looking up in my face with a r •
smile, said: “But you love me now; And
I love you so and shall always love you,
and Marietta shall not come between us
again.”
Her words came like a revelation,
though 1 did not comprehend their full
purport.
“What nonsense is this?” I cried,
throwing her roughly off me; “you
cannot think that I love you because 1
spoke to you at the fair and tried to
please you.”
She dropped on her knees aud buried her
face in her hands.
“And 1 hated her —hated her to death
for you.”
The words were uttered between bitter
sobs. The phrase wdich she now had used
several times iu my bearing 1 thought to
be ail idiomatic expression used to denote
lutense hatred.
“Well, you see how foolish you havo
been,” I said. “Better go and become
friends again witb Marietta.”
“Friends! How? Sue is dead!”
I rushed to her side and caught her by
the arm.
“Dead !”I cried, horror stricken. “Dead,
and you have killed her?”
“Yes, I hated her to death for you, for
you; because I loved you and she came
between us.”
1 could hear the buzz of many voices in
the street, as the villagers were excited
over something. The professor rushed
breathlessly on the piazza.
“Marietta, the girl whom you brought
home from the fair last night, has been
murdered. A dagger was driven to ber
heart.”
1 ■
“LOOK, LOOK AT GIUSEPPINA ”
A cry of horror escaped him as ha
pointed towards the girl at my feet.
“Look, look, at Giusenpina!”
Even as he spoke she fell heavily in a
faint. A fourth person had come on the
piazza and rushed to tbe side of Giusep
pina. As I looked down i was startled
toseeMarietta kneehngovertbe prostrate
form. She was pale and her face bore an
expression of suffering. The professor
brought some water and in a few minutes,
through our united efforts, Giuseppina
was restored to consciousness. she
sighed heavily as she opened her eyes and
uttered aery of fear when they rested on
Marietta.
“Do uot be alarmed.” cried the
latter tenderly, “it was only a flesh
wound in my breast. It will soon be well
again.”
Giuseppina hesitated a moment, and
then as the tears surged from ber eves
threw her arms around Marietta’s neck.
The professor went to the end ot the
piazza and pinked up a glittering object,
wtnou he handed to me. It was the dag
ger 1 had given tbe Lombard maid. When
the professor had cried out she had raised
her arm to bury the weapon in her bosom.
At that moment Marietta entered just in
time to strike if from her baud, and theu
she swooned.
1 was standing with the dagger in my
hand when a trumpet blast recoiled me
from a reverie into which I hud fallen.
The diligence was ready to start. I hur
ried mechanically.to take my seat without
saying good-by to the girls’. 1 could not
if I had tried.
SOME NOVEL IDEAS.
The Autographs of all Present at
Weddings Collected.
New York, April 2.—1 sawf a nov
elty the other day 1 would commeml
to brides as something of interest. At
a recent wedding a tin box was pro
vided iu which was placid a sheet of
paper containing the autographs ot all
present, a list of the gifts received, pho
tographs of bride and groom, a piece ot
the wedding cake and the bride’s dress,
one of her gloves, some of the orangj
blossoms and anything else of interest.
The box to be securely fastened; uot to
be reopened for twenty-five years. The
mother of the bride ol whom 1 speak had
had a similar box prepared and found tne
opening of it twenty-five years after, an
event of suoh great interest that she ad
vised her daughter to do th 9 same. Wh at
a chapter ot history such a casket con
tains.
Very pretty colored glass shades come
for candles now and niaku effective dec
orations lor a dinner party. It is a pretty
device to serve the Roman puhch or sor
bet in small dishes, each of different de
sign; for instance, a pink porcelain rose
for one, or a white c.alla lily or a green
leaf of poroelain rolled in the lorm of a
cornucopia or a sea shell filled w ith sor
bet. The beauty and daintiness of these
individual dishes adds greatly to tbe
pleasure, far more than one could believe.
Very pretty doilies to place under fin
gerbowls are made of a square of linen,
hemstitched, and a sprig of lilies of the
valley embroidered in the centre. Hem
stitching whits tedious, is easily done,
and the* make a very pretty present when
they are also the work of the giver. 1
mention these because so many East r
weddiugs are expected to take place.
Every one asks: “What can 1 give the
bride?”. Particularly Is ibis tlio ease
with young girls who wish to give some
thing useful, novel and inexpensive.
These doilies can ba made inexpensive
when they are the giver’s own work, and
she will have tbe satisfaction ol knowing
she lias bestowed a gift which would cost
considerable if bought from any of ths
fancy stores. The Fayal linens are the
most beautilitl things ever Imported for
table decoration, but are so costly as to
be only obtainable by the very rich; still
they know they have something no one
else has. •
Evelyn Baker Hakvikr.
La by Akokn complained ol a toothache.
All tin- remedies used on such occasion* were
applied, hut still sha found no relist, At
length she derided on sending to Edinburgh,
a distance of fifty miles fiotn Clydesdale Cas
tle. for a dentist toextracl the sulf ring tooth,
and when he arrived she declared tnat her
nerve* were unequal to submitting to an op
eration null's* slicsaw It performed on hoiiiu
one erne first. 'lnclew friends admitted to
the saiietuary of her boudoir looked aghast at
this declaration, each expecting to be called
on. hut after a silence of a few ininuli sand
no one offering, she told Lord Arden Hint lie
iiinsi have a tooth mil, llial she uilghl judge
from lu- uiaiiuer of aiipiirtiug the operation
if she could go through it. lie appeared
uiua/ingly disconcerted, mad a a wrv face
and expostulated; Inn the lady insisted. The
obedient husband submitted, and a fine, sound
loot h wi evira t' and from Ins Jaw, after which
she and 'dare I that she had seen enough to con
vince her that she could not undergo a similar
operation.
“Bough on Borne.”
Ask lor A nils’ “Rough on Corns.”
tpilek relief, complete cure, torus, warts,
bunion*. 16c.
STAGE .STRUCK WOMEN
A M 'LADY WHICH PREY’.AILS IN
FASH ION A ISLE SOCIETY.
Mrs. James Brown I’otter Hl Long
Boon Afflicted with It-A Critical Esti
mate of Her Bowers—She Uas Neither
Talent Nor Extraordinary Beauty-
Something About Amateur Societies—
Bernhardt and Her Jaguar.
New York, April 2.—When Mrs.
James Brown Potter played in the Rus
sian Honeymoon witb a lot of aristocratic
amateurs at the Madison Square thea
tre about lour years ago there were two
newspaper writers who predicted that
she would inevitably become a profes
sional actress. I based my prediction on
certain observations that convinced me
that she had an attack ol stage fever of
the most malignant type. I had noticed
her eagerness to meet professional actors,
her anxiety to give all her recitals and per
formances in one of the regular theatres,
and the zeal which led her to devote her
entire time to the amateur stage. These
things are not done for charity’s sake,
though always in charity’s name. One
morning at 10 o’olock, as I strolled out of
tbe Hoffman House, 1 saw Mrs. Potter
sitting in her carriage in front of the the
atre across the street with a well-known
stage manager sitting hatless on the for
ward seat and talking with her earnestly.
When I returned to the hotel two hours
later Mrs. Potter was still in earnest oon
lab with her instructor, so I predicted
that she would soon become a profes
sional actress, and so did another reck
less and luckless man. We were over
whelmed with letters of reproach, de
nial. refutation and indignation, and
Mrs. Potter was quite prostrated at the
ideaof such a thing. in the lengthy in
terviews that followed —she has a genuine
talent for getting herself interviewed —
she shook with pretty feminine horror at
the very idea ol going on the stage pro
fessionally, spoke of her family, her con
nections and ali that. Nevertheless, the
impossible has come to pass, aud Mrs.
Janies Brown Potter, a bright ornament
of a very exclusive cirele of New York
society and the daughter of an old and
aristocratic Southern iamily, is engaged
at a weekly salary to act in a Loudou the
atre.
She is not beautiful, she has not a trace
of histrionic genius, and she is no longer
young. She is the mother of two well
grown children, and her husband is a
highly respected and cultivated gentle
man, abundantly able to provide ior all
reasonable demands. Yet Mrs. Potter
goes on tbe stage and takes the gravest
step a woman of her position can take
with all that that implies.
Why!
It is the craze for notoriety. Once it has
fixed itself upon a man or woman it does
not relent. The victim never entirely re
covers.
i 1
LOOKING FOR IA MANAGER.
One day in Willard’s Hotel, in Wash
ington, JohnT. Raymond, the actor, stood
near the door reading a paper intently.
Tbe article that engaged his attention
was a complimentary editorial about
James G. Blaine. Just as the actor
finished his reading Mr. Blaine saun
tered by. Mr. Raymond stopped bim and
said:
“1 don’t suppose these things interest
you muoh, as your name swarms over
tbe surfaix- of every paper in the country
just now, but perhaps you m*ay care to
read it.”
He pointed out the editorial, and Mr.
Blaine read it through.
“They say that public men become ut
terly callous to newspaper comment,”
continued the actor, “but I must say that
though I have been in this business a
great mativ years 1 still manage to rake
up a feeling of pleasure when I read a
commendatory notice. How is it with
you?”
“Just ths same.” said Mr. Blaine, with
a quizzical little smile as he passed tne
papsr back. “It touches us all in one
wy or another.”
The efforts that men make to get their
names into the newspapers are familiar
to the workers in daily journalism.
Though the outside publlo knows noth
ing of them, with the victims it amounts
to a passion. Their movements are tele
graphed over the length and breadth of
the land, and their doings discussed by
the civilized world. There is no discount
ing the intoxicating nature of all this to
the man or woman who is gifted with a
lair share of sell-esteem. The craze for
notoriety will drive a woman to any
length. When it is joined to a mania
for tne stage the subject is beyond hope.
I know a girl who has been tho source
ol unspeakable chagrin and misery iu
her family for several years through the
stage daze. She caught it as they all
do iu those hotbeds ot gossip, scandals
aud petty jealousies, the amateur dra
matic societies.
AN ELOCUTIONARY FIEND AND HIS
PUPIL.
The circumstance* surrounding her
homo life ure somewhat peculiar, ller
father was a mail of great wealth and
distinction in the rtoutb, but ho lost every
thing in the war and cuuio to New York.
Ills wife—whom he married while his
wealth was very great—was of old
Knickerbocker stock and a lady ol
charming manners and great family
pride. When the blow fell tnu Southerner
put his shoulder to the wheel and worked
like a Trojan. N'o tuan aror strove with
more vim and courage than ha to liulld
up shattered fortunes. Ills wife lahore I
earnestly with him for a few years and
than her health gave way. They’ve a
Una lot of boys, three of them beyond 21
years, and a pretentious borne on Filth
avenue. Fortune has been who to tneir
cause again. The youngest child is a
daughter—a blg-eved. straight and direct
sort oi a girl, who was reared with tfie
utmost tenderness by tbe invalid mother.
She is the only daughter and the
idol ol a family which has now
become divided against itself. Bitter
quarrels have become so frequent that
the eons spend most ot their time at their
clubs and their lather has become a sort
of recluse. The girl is mad on the ques
tion ot playing. Nearly four years azo
she appeared in an amateur dramatic
performance at the Union League thea
tre in aid of a church charity. A few
weeks later her mother discovered that
the girl always went out on Tuesday and
Thursdays. One of the brothers
followed her and discovered that
she was spending her pin money on a
frowsy gentleman with long hair aud
greasy clothes, who “devoted his time to
preparing aspirants for the stage—terras,
$3 an hour.” He lived in two rooms in a
suspicious bouse in the dirtiest quarter
of Thirteenth street. Here the girl visit
ed him twice a week and screamed
“Juliet” and “Lady Macbeth” to an ad
miring audience of stage “mashers” and
broken down actor friends of the instruc
tor. That was rather a lough crowd for
any girl to meet, but she thought them
the greatest of men. The name of actor
was more than enough to cover all their
shortcomings. She was hurried off to
Europe, but a six months’tour did noth
ing but render her irascible and ill-tem
peared She returned and joined the
phalanx of pretty fools who run up and
down Broadway in the afternoon to get a
glimpse of actors on parade and flirt with
them, or who haunt the stage doors oi
tn -atres on matinee days. Most of them
affect Wallaek’s and Daly’s companies,
where the men are most noted lor quali
ties that attract the stage-struck women.
It gives me great pleasure to say tnat,
despite their manifold opportunities, such
men as Kyrle Bellew. John Drew, Otis
Skinner and Herbert Kelsey are models
of correctness and propriety in the streets.
Though stared at hotly, they have al
ways the manners of gentlemen when
abroad-
It became evident to the family of
which 1 write that the glri would have to
have her fling. She was theu permitted
to go to a school of acting under an as
sumed name, but she grew wild with the
companions she met there and she was
taken to Europe again. In London she
disappeared almost immediately after her
arrival. Her mother was prostrated with
griet and a great row kicked up. It was
not until seven days after that they
learned that she had taken a train back
to Liverpool aud shipped thence quietly
back to New York. She is determined to
go on the stage, and as ber will cannot
lie broken the family has and cided to make
the best of it, and we shall witness the
debut of another rich and aristocratic
amateur ou the nrotessioual stage next
fall.
I went to the house a short time ago to
hear the girl recite. There were about a
score of people present, including a man
ager with a shrewd, hooked nose and a
beaming and loving eye, and an over
dressed advance agent who affected the
airs of society by the familiar stage de
vices of pulling down his cuffs and inter
jecting his conversation with such gems
as “betcher life,” “dontober know, deah
boy,” and “a reg’lar lum-tum affair .”
The brothers were surly and fieroe and
the father polite to bis guests but exceed
ingly severe iu manner. 1 was with the
oldest ol the sous, and I never felt more
sympathy for any man than I did for
him, for he is a man of the world, cogni
zant of the life the girl is entering and
aware of the small basis for her fatuous
conceit. I have heard a great many
women recite, but tew who had less
anility than the girl. She is not fitted in
any wav for the stage, but on she goes,
nevertheless.
Mrs. Potter, though she has no trace of
genius, has a certain small capacity for
doiug romantic roles. Measured accord
ing to the professional standard and
stripped of her social reputation, she
would probably beset down as a second
rate stock actress. Tbe stage lever is a
curious malady. No one has yet found a
cure for it; the man who does will ba
greater than Pasteur.
BERNHARDT’B feline.
While society ladies are gettlfeg stage
struck aotresses are getting society
struck. Sarah Bernhardt, now playing
at the Star theatre, is said to be seriously
affected in that way. Instead of the
stupid pug, which has became the con
stant ohutn of the New York society girl,
Sarah shows superior taste by adopting
into her family a ferocious jaguar cat
fresh from the wilds of South America.
The animal becomes rampant whenever
a stranger enters lts mistress’ apart
ments. This is the theatrical thing! The
sight of it no doubt delights the savage
beast of tragedy, but it excites alarm in
that of the average individual.
Blakely Hall.
A Case of Dog Kat Dog.
From the Waihingtqn Critic.
Lolling down the avenue like a big New
foundland dog, the hitee, brawny form of
John Westlake attracted no little attention.
••(Jld Westlake” is a familiar figure almost
anywhere west of the R > kies. He is one oi
the few remaining sporting men of earlier
days. “Speaking of gambling,” he said,
“these Eastern chaps don’t know what it
means, and as for tricks, why, they be way
behind the men that handled the pasteboards
hall a century ago. Oneof the slickest tricks
1 ever saw was worked to the ijneen’s taste
in a Denver faro room. Tho boys bad been
hitting the bank purty heavy, and, although
It was early in the night, the bank was sev
eral thousand dollars loser. Davo Keets was
running the game, and finally took the deal
himself. 1 knew something wus coming, and
determined to slay and see the fun out. Half
an hour had passed, and it was near the end
of a deal, when one of the players asited for a
cigar Dave said to the stranger, lu tile most
natural way imaginable:
"•Try one or these. It is a brand 1 smoke
mys If,’ ami he began fumbling in a lower
drawer, his head being below the table.
The “lookout” at this moment turned his
bead to address a remark to a bystander, and
the box was left unprotected In mat brief
space of time a small fortune was lost. The
stranger who had asked fur tho cigar readied
over and shoving tho top card disclosed tho
queen of hearts and then replaced it before
the dealer resumed Ins position. Handing
over the cigar, Dave made a motion to shove
the top curd, but half a dozen voices called to
nim to hold up. Of course lie waited, and a
look of surprise passed over bis face as every
ono began to conper the queen, and inside of
five iniinnes every cent in the room—close on
lo 112,000—was coppered on that ipiecii.
Finally every on* • ready, and amid a si
lence In winch I thought I iieard the Ihiiinn
mg of one iiiun'e heart, Davo shoved the Kip
eard, disclosing that self-same queen of
beans, sod everyliodv hreallied easier until
another nosh and the queeu of diamonds lav
luce. There were a nuuilier of groans and
one oath or t wo, but the man who wanted a
cigar hid disappeared, gnu the hank look in
half of all the net* wade 111 u silence forced
ill the consciousness that the biters Usd buuu
bit.”
AN AMERICA' - lIEAUTY.
Miss Howes Not of tlie Weird or
Stylish Kind.
American women are the fashion
abroad. They are said to have more
esprit than the femininity of the ‘'eflete
monarchies,” save perhaps, a married
Frenchwoman, whose esprit is generally
too much of the caviare flavor. We are
constantly furnishing charming women
to the other side. Our specimen beauties
are sent across on approbation. Have
not all our lair women recesved diplomas
abroad. Miss Langdon, Miss Grant, Mrs.
Potter, the Carrolls, of Carrollton, and
half a hundred others? And now Miss
Maud Ilowe, who- has just married Mr.
Elliot, the artist, has leit us for a foreign
shore. Tnis is not her first visit ; her rep
utation for beauty is transatlantic. Years
ago she electrified the very Rome toward
which she now travels by her wit and her
loveliness, and sluoe then her portrait,
with ivv-bound head and classicaliv per
fect line of profile, has been exhibited at
the Paris salon.
Among the ranks of charming Ameri
can women. Miss Howe, or, one should
say, Mrs. Elliot, takes a foremost place.
When at her curistening the fairies came
to give their gifts, none were iorgotten.
That soured old dame, who the Queeu, in
a stupid way, not entirely confined to
Queens, always overlooked, received a
card with the others and gave b pretty a
present as any. Probably Miss Howe
has coma nearer realizing her ideal than
auy woman ol her day, provided her ideal
is that of most women. In the first place
she is beautiful —the great requisite alike
ior the heroine of a fairy tale and a meta
physical romance—beautitul in the real,
old-fashioned, honest style, which has
somewhat gone out of date. The French
realists, the arbiters of literary fashion,
don’t make their heroines beautiful any
more. Tnat is commonplace, they say.
Instead they have them changeful eyed
and “swift and white and half perverse,”
with sudden, serpentine movements and
an exciting ferocity of disposition. What
with our passion-tossed French oousins
and our oucolic English sisters, all run
to size, the duty of preserving the old
types of loveliness falls on us. We
should have special preserves for it, as
we have for the buffaloes in the Yellow
stone Park, and as they do for salmon at
Tadousae. Miss Howe’s beauty is not of
this weird and what one might call
“stylish” kind; it is the genuine, una
dulterated article. There is a picture of
her in the Corooran Gallery at Washing
ton, painted by Porter “in his salad
days.” In this we see a lovely, fresh,
healthy girl, perhaps too pretty, a wee bit
suggestive, in her smiling perfection, of
the coy, shell-pink beauties on the covers
of handkerchief boxes, but for all that a
wonderfully lovely oreature, with fine,
feathery, bronze hair and eyes as brown
and deep as the pools in a trout stream.
Siuoe this picture was painted years
have passed and both artist and sitter
have changed. The allurements of white
and gold studies, of tone pictures, have
seduced Mr. Porter from the straight
and narrow path which follows nature,
and Miss Howe soon after deserted the
garbs ot lashion for the picturesque.
This was atter she had begun to write.
With the first plunge into literature tbere
arises in all women the taste ior a pic
turesque style of dress. Mrs. Frances
Hoduson Burnett has strong yearnings In
this direction. She attects white crepe
tea gowns, which fall in lines of classic
purity, flowing wrappers of dull suades,
with trimmings of iur, and long plush
wraps of pale tints, with a bloom on
them, delicate as the gray dust on grapes.
The picturesque in dress accentuated
Miss Howe’s beauty. In a long, straight
gown ot dull red, with puffs on the shoul
ders and a white tucker drawn up round
her throat, or in a white satin ball dress
with a classic wreath of ivy leaves bound
round her curly hair, she might have
stepped from a canvas of Sir Frederick
Leighton’s.
Her writings are well known. They
are not great books, by any means, but
they have refinement without that milk
and water adulteration of which the
female novelist ie so fond. Ladies as nov
elists are not, as a rule, triumphantly
success!ul. They vacillate between two
extremes—the subtly suggestive, by very
young authors, as daring as they are
ignorant, which is generally a rechauffe
of the modern French style, with Ouida
esque touches of local color, or else the
gently pastoral and bucolic, by authors
as timorous of overstepping the hounds
of the proprieties as one of Dickeßs’ hero
ines. Their muse sings the simple loves
of John and Mary; tnev revivify sweet
Auburn, loveliest village of tbe plain;
' they desire to be the Milletts of literature,
but they generally are the B-ysohlaqs.
Jugs Howe has carefully avoided these
rocks aud shoals. Her first book, “Tbe
Newport Aquarelle,” is perhaps tbe best.
It is a well-told love story, with a flash
here and there of something that looks
line genius and little slices of modern
science alluringly sandwiohed between
a love scene and a bit of landscape painu
ing. There is a charming heroine who,
the gossips sav, is the authoress, which
is not improbable, as sbe is bandsome,
olevor and tbe proud recipient of some
twenty-five offers of marriage. This is
doing well, even for the heroine of a novel.
Longfellow’s wife is always cited as a
phenomenal case, and she bad only
twenty-two. On dit, however, that if the
authoress did depict herself in the bril
liant Gladys she has not exaggerated tbe
amount of these matters of tbe heart. It
is said that once when Miss Howe bad a
penchant for dogs each aspirihg suitor
presented her with one. It the number
of tbese canine tributes ot affection was
stated in cold blood, it would be a fact
for contemporaneous history. Penelope,
at a hundred suitors, is supposed to bave
broken tbe record. But w e haven’t tbe
papers to prove this. We bave only the
word of Homer, and we are not even sure
of that. It was Lewis Carroll wbo said
that be bad given tbe matter much study
and bad finally concluded that tbe “Iliad”
and “Odyssey” were not written by
Homer, but by another man of tne same
name. Betsy O’Dowd.
It’s real moo to boa billiard expert.
George Slosson, who gave a aeries of instruc
tions m billiards to Mine. Patti, is going to
Europe at her invitation, and will lie a guest
at her ca-dle for about three months. And
Jacob Schaefer, another expert, who pre
sented Signor Nicolini with a cue balanced to
the perfection of his taste, nas had the com
pliment returned In the shape of an exquisite
diamond and sapphire combination pin and
stud.
GKOROP. R. Sims, the Knglisb playwright
and story writer, has received nearly *IOO.-
000 from Ids plays produced in the United
Mates during the past live years. Ho nas an
interest in a London newspaper which pays
him handsomely, and bis stories always com
mand good prices from the publishers. He is
now in Algiers, working on anew romance.
Ho has the peculiar faculty of being able to
keep two or three serial stories going at tbe
same time, changing from one to tbo other
for rest. _______________
“Tun other morning,” says a writer In the
Epoch, “when a passenger in one of the New
York elevated oars got up to give his seat to n
woman who w as standing, auolher man. with
that line sense of personal comfort which Is
so often displayed in public conveyances,
slipped into the vacant place. This was go
ing a step (though only a step) beyond wliut
tbe traveling public is accustomed to, and a
row would have followed bad not the de
frauded woman raised a laugh by remarking,
in u distinct and satirical voice: 'Ns matter;
the poor man looka tired.' ”
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NEW YORK’S SEWING Wom*e s
A Little Practical Contrivance and
Ingenuity Solves a Problem.
New York, April 2.-The modi St ,
came down from her sanctum sanctorum
on the top floor of one of New York’s hi,
dry goods establishments to witness the
glories ot the spring opening the othe!
day. In one corner of the brilliant roon
two simple cloth gowns stood side by side
The dressmaker halted in her tour of ob
servation in front of these twin product
ot the needlewoman’s skill, lifted t h*
price marks and held them out to me one
in either hand, with a French woman’
expressive gesture.
“Twety-flte dollare; slxty-fife dollare ’>
she said, offering me one, then the other
and finally dropping both with a little
shrug and a wave of the hand that cleared
her skirts of resuonsibility for either
“This I make; that the Arm buv‘- ~
cost me twenty dollare to hire wbat’tha
manuiactiirer get from the sewing woman
for two. Mine is the bettare, but not
forty dollare bettare; it is ail in the price
that is for the sewing pay.”
Half an hour after this object lesson in
the whys and wherefores of city prices 1
met the head of one of the largest jobbing
firms dealing in women’s and children’s
clothing in the country. “I’ve a story
for you,” he said, “and you couldn’t
come at a better time to hear it than
now.”
“The worm turns,” he went on, mo
tioning me to a spot from which 1 oould
see the cashier’s desk just outside tbe
office in whioh we stood, “but the sewing
woman doesn’t rebel. At least sbe never
did till now. She has surprised me by
her first revolt, and it takes so sensible a
shape that the only pity is she never
thought of an uprising before.
“See that woman out there?” as a figure
in hat aud shawl came within the range
of view. “Doesn’t look like a heroine of
romance exactly, does she? But she’s
the central figure of my tale. Just outof
a tenement house. Narrow chest; little
stoop in the shoulders; not much color
no tabe to ourl her hair;” and the narra!
tor went on jerking out the points of de
scription, while I noted the undersized,
middle-aged figure and the drawn look of
perpetual alertness about one’s bread and
butter in the corners of what were origi
nally constructed for pretty blue gray
eyes.
“Made her acquaintance some three
months ago,” the manufacturer went on.
She came to me just at this time of to day
to ask for work. You know how our
business is carried on, I suppose? No?
Well, then, it’s like this. We want so
many thousand dresses, according to our
orders from the dry goods firms, in the
average women’s and misses’ sizes ready
Tor delivery at specified times. We give
out the material, ready cut for the must
part, to jobbers wno undertake to get it
made for us. Sometimes they give it
directly to the sewing women, but oitener
than not they let the work out to under
contractors, and these let it out yet again.
One poor gown goesthrougn a good many
nands before it comes back to ua ready
for the market.
“Cut down the pay ? Of course it outs
down the pay. The price is low enough
anyhow. We can’t help that. The suits
have got to be made to sell, if they sell at
all, at figures that don’t leave much for
tbe making. It is unskilled labor, too,
you know. The suits are cut by machin
ery, and the making is all line for line,
measure for measure, with fifty or a hun
dred in succession. It isn’t possible that
the business should pay high wages, but
wh&t I have been getting at is that tbe
sewiDg woman gets precious little ot
what it does pay.
‘‘Deal with the girls directly? Did you
ever know a man who would concern
himself with 10,000 when he could do his
business with a dozeu equally well!
After all, though, that is just what that
woman out there has been making me do
to all Intents and purposes of late, and
how sbe came to do it is the story that 1
wanted you to hear.
“She asked me first for a contract foi
thirty dresses to be made for the firm. 1
stared at her, I suppose, for I took her
for an amateur woman jobber on a small
scale. 1 had agents enough to place my
work and 1 told her so. Her order wasn’t
big enough for a wholesaler to bother
with, and she couldn’t raise the cash to
pay the deposit on it if II were.
“I couldn’t tell to this day how ltoanu
about that I let her have what she asked
for, for get it she did. I suppose sbe
looked honest and capable too, in spite o(
the thin race that hadn’t been rouoded
out by a decent meal in months. Sbe
emptied her pocket-book of its oue lone
some bank note and a handtul of silver,
and I sent tbe cloth the same day to the
address she gave.
“That work was done, let me tell you
the most promptly of any I had out. It
came back belore 1 had begun to look for
it, and they aaid in the finishing room
that it was in vary good shape. I’ve been
letting her have gooda pretty regularly
since, and the orders have been oreeping
up bv degrees till now she takes forty or
fifty or sometimes even sixty dresses at
once.
“It was only two or three weeks ago
that I got at the true Inwardness of tne
thing. The man that drives the delivery
wagon got a hint oi it and she told me the
rest. She isn’t making a business oi iton
her own account at all, it seems; doesn I
let the work out at lower rates yet to
poorer beggars than hersell. She is sim
ply acting as the deputy, or mouthpiece,
of a whole tenement houseful of women
who got tired of being starved by the job
bers and workiug sixteen hours a day for
next to nothing a week.
“She comes from one of the regular east
side hives, so they tell me, that is run
nmg over with women who have been
wearing their lives out over needles,
thread and sewing machines for years.
There must be somebody of unusual
sense and executive ability among them—
I am pretty sure it is tbe same woman
wbo comes to me—for they set about ran
sacking the nooks and corners of their
brains for a remedy. It sounds a simp*
enough thing to say that they decided,
that this woman decided lor them, tog l
tbe middlemen tbe go by and com
straight to manufacturers’ headquarter
lor work; but in spite oi its simplicity
don’t believe that any of the
women bave done tbe thing before,
that tbere is at present any better c®
for tbe troubles of tbe olass. Two don
or $3 is precious poor money for
labor it costs, but it mattes a diffeieb j
alter all, whether you get the whole
or only half.” , ,_ e( ]
I followed tbe woman who had conin
the only practicable solution l eve f ae rnß .
proposed for one of tbe hardest of P
lems under existing social condition
of tbe building as sbe walked* -
Without much urging she took ®
with her and let my eyesoonfirm tne .j
In a dozen or twenty rooms outoftn
hundred in the big six-story WM'
sewing machines stood in every no .
cranny where a ray of light wouid
and two score of women stitched a .
ir the lash were lilted over each
were busy enough and 111-paid el J a !i*, n eV
any oonnoisseur of hardship, nu
were earning from $1 toll 26°rev
a day issU-ad of 60e. as beret'’
A little practical contrivance * ad ' „f
uity, the more daring from ,- 0 g of
business expsrlenoe and total ~) irk et
capital, bad lightened some of tneo
■ hades in o picture ot misery ** ver
any that Tourguenleff or DU!** 0 *
drew, over which tbe city ,r 0
Campbell’s sketching bad *,u'
without flndlLg a relieving Unt H.
long. r "
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