Newspaper Page Text
10
ROUND ABOUT IN GOTHAM
6UGGESTIVE SIGHTS TO BE SEEN
IN THE GREAT METROPOLIS.
Campanini, Past and Present—An Al
dermar.ic Pagreant—The Lato Genlal-
General Fisk—A Funny Wagnerian
Episode—Seeing the Sights.
(Copyright IW.t
New York, July 26. Fifth avenue, a
hot morning, on tbe shady side, a man on
the shady side of youth and fortune. Where
have I seen that face* Something of the
farmer about it, and something of the
butcher. No, I have not tie honor of a
large acquaintance in either confraternity,
so try again. Beaming countenai ce, just a
dash of disappointment weakening its
native jollity, perhaps a trace of
•‘going the pace,” or it may only
be the sultry morning. A burly build
and a sailor-like roll in walki g, surely he
must be some skipper one has sailed with
somewhere! No, that face is perfectly fa
miliar nil the time, yet where to place it,
that’s the puzzle. A newsj>aper man! Cer
tainly not, there’s too much of the trouba
dour in the make up for that. Ah, trouba
dour—a happy hit —a wandering minstrel
he is, a knight of romance, not long ago a
vei itable king in the realm of the stage,
for it is no other than Campauini. Was
ever a love-lorn operatic tenor so unlike
the part in tbe daylight.' Perhaps our
monarch has bidden a long farewell to all
his former greatness. Ho looks it. There
was a Campauini concert given in Chickor
ing hall a tew weeks ago, and it was well
attended, but it does not seem as though
tbe once adored tenor will ever again he
able to thrill the sons and daughters of
fashion with his trills, or replenish his
depleted poeketl.ook witu the superabund
ant dollars of yore.
Talking of past celebrities, I came un
awares upon a scene the other day that was
evidently as momentous an affair within its
limits ns any grand national celebration.
It was no less than the funeral of an alder
man of the Empire city of the work!
Strolling purposely through the purlieus of
Palestine in Gotham, 1 emet ged about the
lower end of First and Second avenues, and
got stuck in a huge crowd that
blocked up First street. Grand distinc
tion to he a denizen of tbe first street
of the first city in the promiscu
ous universe. We were threaded and
hemmed in by 490 pair horse coaches, le s
or more, for they moved'annind ton quickly
to be counted correctly. Ail the aristocracy
of boodledom ands .looiid'm were present
in the flesh, averaging, apparently, some
250 pounds for each spirited mourner. Be
it borne in mind that the detuset city
father was a member of the bar liy profes
sion. His mansion iu the First street of
Gotham was adorned with a noble swing-sign
all gold upon the front and the back sides
thereof, on which were emblaz ned the
heraldic insignia, show ing that the lamented
propi'ietor purveyed excellent beverage.-,
and that the name of Ins mansion was
“Beer Creek.” Glorious it was to behold
tbe great men of our great city gatiie
beneath the gilded eoat-of-artns t i do
honor to a good man gone. A shout, a
bustle, a cleavage of the crowd bv a
carriage rudely driven, and then a
murmur of admiration as wo saluted the
celebrated magnate who honor our city by
being its mayor. A whole hour of this, a
blinding, dazzling array of distinguished
arrivals, ami just as nature began to give
wav under the stress of so muon delight, I
joined tbe lowlier string who iuvaded a
neighboring hostelry and revived my flag
ging energies with a draught of Lutheran
lager. But too close contact with the great
ones of earth is always depressing.
Gen. Clinton was the second best
chairman of public meetings in New York.
The best is Bishop Potter. I heard Gen.
Fisk make one of his wonderfully genial,
telling speeches only a month ago. ft was
probably his last, and was on his favorite
subject, temperance. Ho bad a fine gift of
humor, quiet, rich, keen and always
strictly to the point. Hisfun bubbled up un
consciously, and, therefore, much more ef
fectively than that of the fussy man
who advertises in advance that he is
going to tell you a funny thing that
will make you laugh your head off. Gen.
Fisk looked good for twenty more years ef
activity. Allowing for whatever of crauk
ery there was in ins craze for prohibition
he was a man of singularly well-balanced
mind, always calm, apparently calculating
as he spoke, and he never manifested any
pas donate feeling for or against anything.
Judgiug by his platform appearances, the
Prohibition party h.-ivo lost their most influ
ential speaker, and it will be interesting to
see on whose should' rs will fall the mantle
of one so rarely endowed with insight and
foresight, and wise temperance in leading
his crusade.
If you have never attended the Seidl So
ciety's concerts, at which the Wagnerites
and classicists of the high German school of
opera fairly revel in their own peculiar fad,
you cannot be expected to know how strong
a hold that sort of thing really has upon
susceptible Gotham. To ueln it along, the
tSeidi’s have invited Frau Wagner to come
over here ar.d be the guest of the soci
ety for several months this summer.
It is expected that if the frau can overcome
her natural repugnance to the sea she may
arrive about .august, but no date has yet
been fixed. Of course, her presence will be
an advent in musical circles worth discuss
ing. The lady isn’t intensely musical by
any means; but for that matter neither are
a good many of the im st enthusiastic wor
shipers of the Master of Bayreuth.
I heard a story in point, yesterday, that
illustrates the profundity of the Wagnerian
emotion working in American bosoms. A
family of wealth and the highest culture
gave a musicale, and almost the first part
of the pr gramme was a sonata or some
such movement by Wagner, rendere 1 by a
professor whose long hair, jungle-like
whiskers and gloomy, cavernous eyes pro
claimed him au enthusiast of the master.
He started in at a great rate. Said the host
to me afterward:
‘‘When about ten minutes had passed, 1
saw peop e pulling out their watches and
slyly peeping at them. At fifteen, they
couldn’t suppress a yawn or two. Twenty,
I began to grow uneasy and cast sharp
giencesat Herr feufelt' mper's music sheets,
which were apparently undiminished. I
tried by every means to draw hts eye and
signal him to stop, but he was absorbed in
the composition. He sat there all twisted
up, bis shoulders humped, his eves glower
ing and bis long, bony fingers skipping like
digital fiends across the keys.
After the half hour, watches
began to be pulled quite openly, one or
two made well-bred excuses and left, and I
comm need to lay plans for secretly assas
sinating the player and having some friend
supersede him at the piano—the deed to be
done while everybody was yawning or look
ing at his watch. Of course the ladies, be
ing hidden behind their fans, would see
nothing. I prayed and swore by turns;
hoped the piano would break down or that
Teuteltomper would be stricken with apo
plexy or something. Perspiration started
from every p re in my body; and still the
mghtmare’sat there, like the old man on
Smbad’s sbuulders. O, why had I ever
hired him!
“At last, the bony fingers relaxed some
what. The end, thought I, has surely
come. But no; he was only gathering fuel
for a fresh outburst of Wagnerian jiassion.
It came with a crescendo and a fortissimo
that startled the house. The piano frame
rattled and shook, and the gas jets danced
with the vibration. Then, a peal that
sounded like the noise of a bouse fulling
iota the cellar while half a dozen Dutch
bauds bquraked outside, and the great
work of the master was over. It bad just
lasted forty-five minutes.
"No tnoie Wagner for me. lam satis
fied hereafter to stand all the old-fashioned
tunes, and even to endure what some call
popular music; but we draw the Hue
at Wagr.er in our house after that little
experience.”
News has just been received here an
nouncing that the British football team,
which is to play the famous teams of
Princeton, Harvard and Yale, has been se
lected, and that the men will sail for New
York within the next two we-ks. Pollock
of the Clyde team is to b the captain.
The Clydes are the crack f lotbiaders
of tbe “Ugh; li tie island. ’
and there has been a gr-at row among ths
Scotchmen on account of their best plaver,
having been enlisted f r the American trip,
leaving the club so weak that it will go
baid with it to maintain its supremacy at
home. Half ad zen Scots- I men who came
over several months ago will tc* retained as
substitute-, having only ths eleven
players and a captain 1 1 he drawn from
the three home teams, the I.ar.arks,
the Queen’s Park and the Clydes. '1 he
International team will piay its fir-t
game in New York on Labor day, after
winch it will respond to challenges from
te.ms in Connecticut, Rh'xie Island, Massa
chsueits, New Jersey and elsewhore where
teams are ready to play the foreigners. The
announcement that Princeton will play the
Britishers has given lively satisfaction to
the managers, as such a match is almost
sure to be followed by games with the Yale
and Harvard elevens. They regard Capt.
Poe as the greatest football strategist in the
country.
The Hotel Victoria at Heidelberg seems
likely to be transformed into a summer
po itical headqu .rteis. Since the second de
parture of Richard Croker f->r that cool,
salubrious retreat, a score of Tamilianv
stat 'srneu, of more or less importance, have
followed his example and gone abroad for
tbe remainder of the summer. The Fassett
investigation is silenced for the season, and
as Croker yet reigns in the wigwam—
whatever be may- do a year hence—it is in
dispensable that he should be kept in touch
with the political iioutonants of Tammany.
Had he remained here, the Catskills would
have been the rendezvous and possibly Sar
atoga later in the season. The big chief
promisei to be back in timo to fix up “the
slate” iu September, but there will be a tall
amount of quiet caucusing at the German
spa meanwhile.
If our coutrv cousin wants to take in a
bird’s-eye view and a just conception of the
big metropolis, he can easily- do both in au
easy day’s tour. The stree car is the best
point of vantage. You enjoy the luxury
of a drive in your pair-horse carriage
without the risks and worries of so danger
ous a journey as wo are now going to
take. It’s a hundred to one against any
private carriage getting tlir ugh without
what are called accidents, but which in
reality are traps set by- the rmsmanagers of
the city street paving work. We shall
travel along miles of streets full of pitfalls
for any dainty vehicle that cannot run on
the car rails. And those that enjoy a tem
porary smooth passage on them are pretty
sure to screw a wheel or two < ff in trying
to make way for the cars. . You see, on nu
average, two wheel-smashed vehicles in
each hour of car travel in New York. All
good fi >r trade, any ay.
Now, suppose we start from the Central
station iu Forty-second street, and take the
short car ride to the Weohawkon ferry at
its v. o t end. Here we board the West Side
belt line car, and our sight-seeing begins
with a view of the dens dy populated region
around the gas works neur Tenth avenue.
Miles of houses towering toward the thun
der-laden clouds. Every house a barracks
and every room a nursery for
the propagation of the Gothamite
species. Here are breweries, factories,
foundries, lumber yards, and industries i
- chief among them being, appa
rently, tho consumption of beer in the
swarming saloous! Hark! The fire-bell!
Quick as a flash the face of tho broad ave
nue changes. A moment ago you saw house
fronts, now you can’t see the windows and
doors for the folks that poke through them,
craning their necks till you dread lost their
whole bodies will come out, too. You
can’t see tho sidewalks for bulky
matrons and squalling babes, nor much of
the roadway for the myriad imps that mob
the cais, all reckless of life mid- limb, in
their enthusiasm to race alougside the tear
ing engine as it strews its trail of fire
among the crowd. This is the higtat of bliss
for young America up Tenth avenue wav.
If you want to know his sport on wet
evenings, take the same line after dark and
count how many dabs of ntud you get in
your eve in a short mile.
When we have duly admired the array
of big ocean greyhounds, such as the ma
jestic City of New York and City of Paris,
whicu all stand iu a row to be gazed at like
ballet Leauties at the Casino, we are whirled
pa-t the scarcely less majestic white boats
that sail tho sound. This is the Puritan,
and that the Pilgrim, each carry
ing passengers numbering up in
the thousands. A charming panorama is
this of the great North River, with its
kaleidoscopic display of every sort of craft
that sails on river or sea. Now we are at
tbe Battery, with its matchless water pict
ure and exquisite bit of park scenery.
The wonder is that tho Knick
erbockers of old—who generally
stuck to good tilings when they had
them—ever gavo ui this noble corner of
Manhattan to the base purposes of trade.
The snirit of democratic progress was too
strong for them, and never again will an
exclusive aristocracy be able to occupy the
busy thoroughfares around the Battery
park with their mansions and promenades.
T he most beautiful and the most broezy bit
of New York for evermore belongs to the
people, perhaps chiefly to the foreign pau
per immigrant, you muy think as you ram
ble around.
Here we board our East Side bolt car and
scud gaily alongside the endless linos of
river and coastwise boats that hero unload
their cargoes. High over the tallest masts
hangs the spider web known as the Brook
lyn bridge, a thing of beauty from below
and marvelous substantiality when you
tread its aisles. A little further we come
to the dry docks, where several huge vessels
• are stilted up on high ; we -an see the bot
tom of their keels and watch the
workers rivetting tno copper plates on
them. We thread our way through a
strange old-time town that lies between old
Madison street and the river, a town that
nobody ever penetrates except tho ’long
shoremen and others who get their living -
here. Quaint old brick cottages, a fow pre
tentious mansions, all now fallen from their
once high estate to the level of tenements
and lodging h uses.
The E Ist Side avenues A, B, C and D
have a character all their own. Anything
but Engli h. Perhaps Gernmu names most
a ound, yet the general effect is that of
some European port where sailors do their
marketing. Babies everywhere, always.
Unless this blessed Manhattan isle can
expand its close-corseted sides within the
next quarter century, Manhattan isle
must burst. The people overflow
already. We are now at the imagi
nary gates of Central park, into whose
tempting glades we will wander so far as to
glance at the statues in the Mall and the
cooling plashing of the great fountain. An
hour iu tho art museum to see the all-but
price pictures given by our big millionaires
will but whet the appetite to come again for
a whole day among these treasures of all the
arts of all the ages.
Now we step across to the Seventy-sixth
street station of the Third Avenue elevated
railroad, partly for the sensatiou of being
whisked along au interminable row of bed
rooms nice and nasty, and partly to get
quickly to as curious a bit of civilization as
can be found in any city iu the world. We
will gladly part company with the rissy
railway at Chatham square, and take a
short walk up Baxter street a rong the old
clo’ Jews, returning down Mott street
among the still shrewder witted Chinese.
No need to attempt descriptions of tneso our
best known world’s fans. See them, and
you want no pen pictures.
Pass we now aci os-the Bowery, if e
don’t loae our leg- among tho wheels of the
four-fold line of vehicles, and let us bravely
drive into the uuknown country, which we
shall soon sieo includes Judea, Russia,
Hyria, Italy, France, Bohemia, Poland and
Arabia in it* coniines. Hero dwell the
THE MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY, JULY 27, 1890—TWELVE PAGES.
dusky trues who sew- your ready-made
suits, peddle laces, jewelry, melons, ices and
neckwear, who glue together tl-e easy-to
stna-h furniture, who fake the gaudy
millinery of the street-, who stitch shirts,
make suspenders, tran-lito old shoes into
new ones, and do all the rubb.sbly work
mankind is fool enough to buy l-ecause sup
posedly cheap. The air is opprewive, its
odors are nasty; let’s get out. We’ve had
enough. Here’s a car that will take us to
<mr - artiug point at Central station. We
have surveyed the round world, and tho
c at can bj told in cents. Pas.
STORIES ABOUT NAMEji.
A Yarn From a Minister—A Baby Girl
Who V/as Christened George.
From the Chicago Herald.
The reappearance of that annual offense,
the city directory, which is probably the
most effusively named volume ever issued
iu the west, has set a lot of tho old settlers
telling stories about funny names they
have known. But there are other good
stories Le-udei those of the old settlers, and
Imre is one from the vintage of Rev. Robert
Mclntyre.
A quiet grocer who used to do business
down in Cent al Illinois, where “Bob’- be
gan his preaching, was presented with a
i ery flue girl baby onetime in the c urse
of domestic events, and he puzzled for a
long time for a name which would be
fittingly worn by so remarkable a child as
he found this one to be. The grocer’s name
was Isom New, and when the curious
women of till neighborhood pestered him
with the query what he would call the
child he always told them that he would
“name the baby something.” Finally that
Is just what he did, and the little 0119
is now going through life with
the christening name of “Something”
and the family name of “New.” If she
should ever get married she will bo Some
thing New no longer. Well, this same
offense of presenting the man with a baby
was kept up with the most startling regu
larity for the t ext ten years, and the poor
fell w was at last compelled to close out his
bu-iness and sell his home and go on the
road as a traveling man for a wholesale
house in Chicago. He was away on a trip
one time and when he got off the train on
his return the station agent, who knew all
the news of the place, said to him heartily
as the sample cases were deposited on the
platform:
“New baby up at your house last night,
Isom."
“O, that’s nothing new,” responded tho
tired parent. And “Nothing New” the
babv was from that day to this, and he will
wear the old title at least until he is large
enough to lick his father and go into court
for a newer name.
That story reminded another minister of
a littlo thing that happened at a christening
one timo and he told it. A good mother,
who was no worse a woman for a mui
formation that caused her to lisp, brought
her first born, a girl, to church one morn
ing to h ive it ushered by baptism into a
proper life. The largo congregation waited
with much interest for tho event, as con
gregations always do. and the timid woman
stood up there and presented her baby to
the veteran minister, who had grown hard
ef hearing when he cauie to tho ordinance
of infant baptism.
“What is the name?” he asked, as ho
dipped his hand in the fount.
“Lucy, sir,” was what the good woman
tried to-say, but that aggravating lisp both
ered her, and she pronounced a name that
made the old man straighten up iu astonish
ment.
“Wh-a-at?” he asked, with the widest sort
of a circumflex.
“Lucy, sir,” again essayed the mother. It
was the same result. The old fellow grasped
the botiy, dipped his hand in the fount
deeper than ever and then discharged his
duty regardless of age, sex or anything
else.
“Lucifer! No; 1 will never confer so
heathen a name or any Christian child.
George Washington Brown, I baptize thee
in tho name of the Father, son and Holy
Ghost, and may you teach your parents bet
ter manners.”
There used to be an old fellow named
Askin who kept a drug store down
near Thirty-fifth street. He must have
either diod or resigned his residence here,
for his name does not appear in tho latest
directory. He was a strong adherent of
the doctrine that all people were at first
named in accordance with apparent traits,
qualities or occupations. Ho got his
own name, lie said, tecauso his an
cestors were given to asking a
good many questions. But he was
an insufferable bore with his perpetual
interrogatories. He wanted to know every
thing about everybody. Nothing was too
private for him, nothing too sacred. It
wouldn’t have been so bad if he had kept to
himself the things he did learn; but noth
ing delighted him more than to retail to the
first customer the little things he had found
out from the last. One morning anew col
lege student took rooms near him and
dropped in occasionally to buy a cigar. He
was not a talkative young man, and was
inclined to be rather dignified.
*‘Whero were you last night?” queried the
old mau, smiling painfully at the youth one
day just after a littlo party at "which he
knew the student had attended. “Prettv
nice girl that w as. I heard you took her to
the theater Wednesday afternoon and to
church last Sunday. You must be getting
very fond of her. Has she any money? I
heard she ill not inherit anything from
the old nan’s estate—too much tied up with
mortgages and security bonds and things of
that kind. How much is sho worth? You
must excuse me for asking so many ques
tions. You know, I believe, we were all
named because of some trait which made
the name chosen appropriate. My ancestors
were great people to ask questions.”
"Yes, but it was not that from which
they-derived their names.” responded the
student, with the most charming urbanity.
“What was it?” queried the druggist,
tickled beyond expression that he had been
permitted to ask another question.
"Your original ancestor was a very force
ful man and seat the trait that made him
famous clear down to his latest offspring.
He originally had one more letter In his
family name—tho letter S. He was called
‘Ass-kin’—kin to an ass, you know. Nic9
morning. Good morning.’’
But the druggist never forgave him nor
over again alluded to the a propriateness
with w hich his progenitors were named.
"Appiopriate names,” mused the man
who had not laughed. “That reminds me
of the old fellow whq gave us all our di
plomas when I was a graduate. He was a
very blunt man and a great hand to give
good advice, though he never troubled limi
self much if the couusel ho offered was uot
altogether welcome. Among us was a
gaunt fellow who had barely gotten through
and whose name w s Hunt. He had any
arnount of call, and he bristled up to the
old professor after the parchments had been
given out, desiring something iu the way of
advice as to what, course he should take in
life. For himself he thought he was fitted
for the ministry or the law, or something
like that
“ ‘What is your giveu name?’ asked the
gruff professor.
“ ‘Jonathan Alexander Washington,’ re
plied the graduate proudly.
“ ‘J. A. W.,’ commented the cynic. ‘J.
A. TV. Hunt—go learn to be a dentist,’ and
that is what tho young mau did. Aud I
understand lie has studied so well that he
has become a very good one.”
IK VUG WANT
If you want a PAY BOOK MADE.
If you want a JOURNAL MADE.
11 you want a CASH BOOK MADE,
If you want a LEDGER MADE.
If you want a RECORD MADE.
If you want a CHECK BOOK MABEL
II you want LETTER HEADS,
If you want NOTE HEADS.
II you want BILL HEADS,
If you waut BUSINESS CARDi
—sr.su VOCK ORUEKS TO
Morning News steam Printing House,
iloßMso Nzwa IJcu,d iso.
a Whitaker Street.
THEROSY COLLEEN BAWN
HOW BHS BLOOMS AMONG THE
BOGS AND THE HkDaEf.
The Peasant Girls in the Country Dis
tricts of Ireland— How They Work on
Week Days and Dance on Sundays
and Are Red-Cheeked and Hand
some.
(Copyright.)
Limerick, July H.—la the remoter dis
trict-, a-.ay from the villages, among the
peaty nogs and the hawthorn he lges, tae
ro-es bloom red in the cheeks of the Irish
peasant girl. However, she manages it on
tho stirabout and potatoes, she grows lush
an l vigorous and fuii.of sap, like tho greeu
things that fill tho island.
The colleen bawn is straight, she is not
infrequently tall, her shoulders are br ad,
tier waist large, but supple, an l she looks
as strong as a young man. Her hair is
brown, perhaps with a shade of chestnut;
sometimes it has a ripple iu it, butoftener
it is lusteriess and straight, and, very pos
sibly, so heavy as to be almost mop-like.
I have seen peasant girls with braids that
were like clubs, the tresses when uabound
reaching the knees.
Her forehead is low, and the wave of hair
is drawn back to leave it uncovered, her
eyes are frank and blue, her complexion
clear, though exposure to the weather has
darkened it and put into it shades of yellow
brown, and the red in her cheeks is as deep
os in the poppies that brighten the wheat
fields. It is a sulash of color, daring, as if
an artist had flung it on a dark spot of his
canvas; more brilliant than one ever sees in
the drier climate of wbat they are here
pleased to call “the states,” spreading its
warm blush quite from cheekbone to chin.
The peasant g.rl is often fine looking,
sometimes superlatively handsome, but
never with what an American would con
sider any delicacy of beauty. She has few
of the soft curves of more luxuriously
nurtured young womanhood. Her arms
are not rounded, they look muscular and
hard. Her bust is flat like an Amazon’s.
She is not dimpled. But she is sturdy, as
becomes a scion of the “foinest pisantary in
the world." Her greatest charm is "her
fresh and splendid vitality.
She wears a red kereinef over her head
or folded|about her sho ilders, and a petti
coat of brown or dark blue stuff, which sue
weaves herself and which stops half way
between her knees and tier ankles. Six
days in the week her feet are brown and
bare. They are large feet, and look bettor
in ibeir naked shapeliness than whoa dis
guised for Sundays and holidays under
coarse yarn stockiugs—these she knits —and
the cheap laced shoes, with tho peculiar
combination of thick soles and high heels,
which come to tho small market towns.
For defense against tho weather she has
a long black cloak gathered at the neck and
provided with a hood, and which is proba
bly the most characteristic article left of
the old peasant costume.
The colleen bawn, as I nave seen her, is
perhaps at her best at a “pattern.” There
are not so many patterns now a- there us id
to be. AU the peasant customs are, if not
dead, retreating farthor and farthor inti
the fu-tness s of the bogs, and tbe girls have
many things less pleasant to think of than
dancing at the cross-roads of a Sunday
afternoon. So it was with au especial thrill
of pleasure tnat I recognized the peculiar
screech of the bagpipe as the jaunting car
tilted its way over a lit; le rise, while the sum
mer sun was warm and the honeysuckle and
ivy climbed over the wails last Sunday.
The ancient Paddy, who was our driver,
turned with a smile that dug deep channels
for ail bis wrinkles. “Stiure, ye’re iu luck,”
he ejaculated. “That’s the ’Rakes o’ Mal
low.’ They’ll be arther jiggur at the
Widow Scannell’s cross, au’ the divil wid
me if it isn’t the first patthern I’ve seen in
nigh on a year.”
The scene as we approached it was ani
mated. Four roads met in a cosy little hol
low, where the hawthorn hedges had grown
to mossy trees. Overhead the crows circled,
cawing ceaselessly, and on the smooth, white
clay road, hard as any dancing floor, the
bareheaded girls and the sunburned young
fellows stood opposite each other, and
footed it with a sort of silent enthusiasm
that is Celtic only iu very modern days.
Gathered round the dancers wore croues
who might have been drunlical priestesses
and groups of square-built flaming cheeked
urchins, bare-legged, and wearing each but
a single garment. The old piper in tattered
knee breeches walked to and fro on the
short grass among the dairies. and blew
till his cheeks puffed out and every colleen
and gossoon of them all beat the time.
“Arrah, look to yoursel’, Patrick!”
“Good for ye, Maggie Tobin; that was a
foinestep!” So the onlookers admonished
and cheered them on while the jig was in
full swing.
At the approach of strangers a “Whist,
ye!” went around; “there’s a leddv cornin’,”
and Maggie, whose big, supple figure had
been all abandon, her head, her arms and
her whole body dancing us heartily as her
feet, first became awkward, tho angles
came in her elbows, her smile faded, she
dropped out of step and fell, back hastily to
lose herself in the littlo crowd, while Pat
rick looked neither to the right nor to the
left, but daticed stolidly on, and the piper
piped his loudest, both disdaining to pay any
attention to the intruder, who felt as much
repulsed as if she had attempted to storm a
barricadod cabin, or had hot water flung on
hor from a window. It was rather a pain
ful reminder of the “strained relations”
between the cabins and the “big house-,”
but in a minute the vagrant, harmless
character of the tourists seemed to be recog
nized. for two chubby little colleens, clad
chiefly in their own innocence, scrambled
through a gap in the hedge and reappeared
hastily with a tin pail holding milk at a
“penny a glass,” with which they w ith un
dying nope pursued the car for half a mile,
churning into butter, with their steady dog
trot, all that they did not spill.
The afternoon dance—if nowadays she
has the heart for dancing—is only a very
little bit of the peasant girl’s Sunday.
Early in the morning one see- her coming
through the wet grass, down tho long lanes
from every little cabin under its own clump
of trees—a mile maybe from the country
road —perched high on the rounded slope of
the hills. Her skirt is of fresh homespun,
but no longer than that she wears on week
days. Her head is still bare or, maybe, if
she is past 16 and out at service, she has
achieved the dignity of a straw hat with a
bunch of cheap flowere —a piocoof gorgeous
ness which accords well with her ideas of
the day’s proprieties, but interferes with the
traveler’s notions of tho picturesque and
traditional. Fortunately or unfortunately,
according to tbe point of view, the
straw nat is only occasional. The
narrow country road leads her through
the foxgloves and the whitey-pink roses—
a couple of miles or maybe four—to the
huddled streets of the dark little village,
where the parish chapel is a- dark and al
most as huddled as any of the rest of the
buildings, but she kneels in ail faith and
sincerity, tells her beads with pious indus
try and triei to keep her thoughts, not
from wandering but from wandering too
far, while the Latin rolls out sonorously
with edifying if unintelligible sound. When
the little congregation files out again under
the sky and the elders st 'p to talk—alas! of
evictions or tenants’ defense leagues—the
colleen, whose eyes are bright, has no lack
of brown peasant lads or, more blissful
still, of one to walk the homeward road
with her and pull her yellow acacia blooms
and roses.
Mond yis a different matter, for the
serious business of life begins for the pretty
colleen ivlieu she is only a slip of girl. There
is always a cabinful of v auger brothers
and sisters to mind, and srockiugs to knit
hen tho wool can lie come by for sale at
the nearest market town if not to wear, and
spinning to be done on the dingy old wheel
that stands when tho summer day- are fine
on the stone just outside the cabin door,
and weaving, too, on the small and awk
ward hsridioom of rough and rather prim
itive flan mils— though the spinning and
weaving here as eisswbere are going by and
the result is fewer and poorer clothes
for lick of ready money to
buy tbe cheapest products o* the
machines—and dyeing in a few dark
and simple colors as Ltflts Ireland’s social
atmosphere. Perhaps the colleen is trans
ferred to the kitchen of some farmer's wife,
where she washes th; plates ll.a" have eac 1
a shamroc.c leaf iu its middle, and is
s uudly cuffed when she lets one fall fro u
her awkward hands. The pig feeling is
her charge, and the nursing of the frost
bitten lambs, and the spreading of tbe
linen on tho hedges, a ,and again hi is cuffed
if tho crows or trie sparrowt cams down
aud soil thy snowy whiteness of tae cloths.
Her days are full enough of work, for the
farmer's wife feels the pinch of the times in
spite of the "generous reductions frequently
m de by tbe goo 1 landlord through the
km i agents,” to qu To from the advertise
ment of a recent 1 -nsehold sale, and puts o i
herself ami one peasant girl, perhnp , ti n
tisks that formerly occupied two or thru
There ure potatoo- to boil, and cabbage and
bacon, and pans to scour, and eggst> hu.it,
and chickens to feed, trad cows to milk; and
through the summer the farmer will exrect
her to work in the fields, weeding potatoes
by hand on her knee-, instead of with a hoe.
If she Is except! mally trustworthy and
he is busy with the baying, ha will send her
to maQcet, and then you will sio her driv
ing a small and rougn-coated donkey, nieek
looking and miserable. The donkey is
fastened to a small’and dingy two-wneeled
cart, and in the cart, on a sack of potatoes —
it has no seat —or on top of a box t at holds
a squealing pig, sits Maggie; and anon she
cal s, “Och! murther! was there ive rsieh a
baste? G.t along wid ye! ArraT, lo k at
ye, Micky; I asx ye now an’tell me, do ye
know it’s folve miles from home ye be?”
And then there rises a snatch of a ballad,
for Maggie, in spite of ail, is light-hearted,
and Mickey manages a plodding sort of
trot, and the queer iittle outfit jogs by wiih
a squeal and a smile.
If Maggie has a managing mother, many
a basket cf new laid eggs—for lack of
which the little gossoons and colleens may
go hungry—will fiud its way nicely covered
with green leaves to the housekeeper of the
“big house,” iu return for which and for
many smiles and suave flatteries it may bo
that In time that powerful personage will
speak a good word for littie Maggie, and the
underling of the farmer’s wife will fiud her
self promoted from tho farmstead to the
mansion of the landlord—if be be not under
a boycott—there to be scullery maid, with
further promotions if she proves an ant
scholar through all the grades of under and
upper housemaid and white-capped parior
maid, perhaps in time even to ba house
keeper and hold a whole retinue under her
in awe.
To serve the Protestant landlord is in
many districts a forbidden choice to the’
peasant girl, and, indeed, owing to the
growing poverty of the landlord classes, tho
trains of servants are every year cut
shorter; so that the rosy colleen bawn,
turned 17, may one day find herself, with
all the fortune her mother could bestow on
h r tied up in a big colored neckerchief, on
the forward deck of a steamer plowing its
way out of Queenstown, to lie down in her
cramped berth in the ship’s bowels by night
and sit on a coil of rope straining her eyes
toward the horizon by day, until sue threads
the streets of anew city, to put on
awkwardness with her cheap new
finery as sho puts off the smell of
the peat bogs with her homespun pet
ticoats, to try the patience of tho Ameri
can housewife with her strangeness and her
ignorance, to send home money to tako care
of the old father and the mot or and bring
over all the rest of t e wild little gossoons
and coll ens, to lose the freshness of her
color in a different climate aud under a
tighter roof, and to sail back again maybe
in naif a dozen years, this tune in the
"second cabin,” to air htr silk dross aud her
jet trimmed wrap and her glittering rhine
stone jewels before her some time play
mates, to see her old home and let her new
prosperity be fairly understood before for
the second time |she turns her face reso
lutely westward to marry and bring up lior
children not as peasants but as Americans.
The peasant girl who doesn’t emigrate
marries young. Her husband is a peasant
lad, and he takes her to a cabin that is pic
-1 uresque enough outside, comfortless enough
within. It stands in a greeu hollow, iu the
open or under a group of trees. It is built
of rough stones, whitewashed, with a roof
of thatch in which great splendid crimson
poppies are blooming, brightening all the
landscape around and giving an oddly fos
tive air to the premises. There is one low
door in the side nearest the road and one
small window, perhaps a mere chink in the
stones. The dooi admits to the single room,
which has no flooring, but the feet of many
little folks will soon trample the earth bot
tom hard aud smooth. The stone walls
within are whitewashed just as on the out
side, or they are left black without any fin
ishing. Opposite the door Maggie arranges
her table with a shelf or two above it, on
which she always keeps a crock of flowers
blooming. Here stand her cups and saucers
and her few household furnishings.
On one side of the table is her handlocim,
if she has one, and on the other her rude
bed, square and low and not abundautiy
provided with covering. At one end of
the hut is a fireplace, and the smell of the
peats is heavy in the air. There is a wooden
chair, maybe two, and now a pig, now a
baby under foot, and Maggie says the times
are hard, but she blooms.
Eliza Putnam Heaton.
SHOULD CHRISTIANS DANC3.
Quotations From Clergymen and
and Authors Upon the Subject.
f\nm the Next) York Tribune.
Bishop Vincent of the Methodist Epis
copal church, of Chautauqau fame, received
a let er from a young woman prominent in
society recently upon the subject of daucing.
Iu her letter she said that she had been
received into the Methodist church, yet
was fond of dancing, and, moreover,
was constantly brought in contact with
those who did danca She snou'd not forego
the pleasure of dancing, she wrote, unless
Bishop Vincent instructed her to do so.
Ti e letter which ho wrote in reply treated
the vexing subject in a thorough and com
prehensive manner. His quotations of
authorities are apt and to the point. The
letter Lias received some publicity anl
parts of it are here produced. The bishop
says:
“The great lion-faced orator, Daniel
Webster, when asked why he did not dance,
replied: ‘I have not brains enough.’ Thack
eray, the great novelist, has written:
‘When a man confesses himself fond of
dancing I set him down as a fool.’ Alfred
Cleveland Coxe, Episcopal bishop of Now
York, has said: ‘Alas, that women pro
fessing to follow Christ and godliness should
not rally for the honor of their sex ana
drive these shameful dances from society.’
Gail Hamilton has written: ‘The thing is,
of its very nature, unclean and cannot be
washed. The very pose of the parties sug
gests impurity. ”
Bishop Vincent also quotes one of the most
fa.r-minded of Congregational pastors in
New England, wno says: “Fashionable
dances as now carried ou are revolting t >
every feeling of delicacy and propriety aud
are fraught with the greatest danger to
millions.”
In his own opinion and of his own knowl
edge Bishop V meant says: “It is not the
rattle one nears in the neighborhood of a
s mke that he objects to. A child might
play with it. The dance is the rattle, but
the danger Is in the fn ig and the poison.
Its a-sociations and tendencies must come
into the count. Now, in the dance there
must be at some point a peril, or so many
wise aud good people would not have writ
ten, taug.it aud preached against it. It has
bteusaid: ‘id the pure all things ore pure,’
but, alas, who are the pure, and how many
suen are there! Let those dance who will;
the humble, earnest, consistent Christian
who desires to consecrate his or her every
word and act to Christ will deem it wrong
aud Inconsistent to dance.”
Mossy is the root of all evil, it might also bo
observed in this connection that it is a root
which you have to grub pretty hard to get.—
Mumeu't H'eek’y,
FRENCH CHATEAU LIFE.
PLEASUB3 AND LKI3UR3 AND
COUETLY MEM AMD WOMEN.
Halls Freighted With Memories of
Noblemen—How a Day is Spent in a
French Chateau—Where the Work
adiy World ia Lost Sight of and
Beautiful Women are Queens — An
American Woman’s Nas.ve Wit
Gossip of a Chateau Dinner—The
Frenchman of To-day and the Mod
ern irenchwoman Gallantry and
Kindness of Mademoiselle La Pan
eienna.
Paris, July IT.—There is a very general
idea that life at an English country house
is the most charming in the world. So it is
with one exception—and t' at is life at a
French ehutean. The French house has all
the luxuries of the Engiisa one, does not
hesitate to import innovations from Amer
ica, and b s a subtle something in the way
of hospitality aud consideration that is im
possible in the tight little isle that is so full
of itself it denies the right of everybody
else to live wisely or happily.
WHERE NOBLEMEN’ WINED AND FEASTED.
Coming up to this French chateau, there
is an avenue of lime trees nearly two miles
in length. They look iike great tali servi
tors b .wing you a welcome, as they did
years ago to His Eminence Cardinal Riche
lieu, to the Great Marsnal Richelieu Louis
le Grand, and to all the hosts of brave men
and beautiful women who were their guests.
The Frenchwoman understands the art of
hospitali: v, the finest expression of a wel
come. You are met at Calais by a man
servant, and from that time on where you
are going, or how you are to get there, is
his affair a< and not yours. At eution from
him to you he makes you feel is bis great
est delight, and, at even a look of fatigue,
he seems to know how to make things more
cheerful, and y u are more at your ease.
A FRENCH VALET’S DUTIES.
In England, where the man servant is so
much to the fore, they are apt to forget
that in France ho is oven a greater power,
but a power restrained by an iron hand en
cased in a velvet glove, or, to reach up to
this nineteenth century, an undressed kid
one. To the bachelor he brings up his cap
of coffee, fresh egg at and roll in the morning;
then he fixes his bath, and, if he has no
valet of his own, as ists him in dros-ing. A
little later he is getting the room in order,
ad later in the day he is one in a row of
flunkies, radiant in gold lace, ready to
attend to your wants at dimier, to pick up
a l-dy’s lan, or to do whatever his hand
findeth for him to do. Personally I prefer
men servants, and I wish we could intro
duce this French custom in America. They
are more polite, more exact, aud more to be
depended on than women.
LIFE IN A FRENCH CHATEAU.
How does life go through all the long
summer day? Well, say than your hostess
is a duchess—la Duchesse Belle-Veuve. In
the morning, just when the sun’s ra>s
awaken you, there is brought a cup of tea
or a cup of coffee, as you may desire, and
with it, if you Lnvo a bit of an appetite, an
egg aud a piece of bread and butter or a roll.
After that you dally away the morning
hours dressing, writing letters or reading
the papers. About 12 o’clock you go down
stairs. Here in the great big, beautiful
library—a library rich in old books and with
that curious smell of Russia leather th it
should pervade a library, you meet the rod
of the people.
About 12:30 o’clock comes the dejeuner a
la fourchette. The table would delight the
eye of an artist. On it there is no cover—
the mahogany glitter.ng and reflecting
things like a mirror. Little serviettes are
placed here and there under the dishes, and
fruits, such as you can get only in Franco,
are piled high up iu silver baskets and
bowls, while there is a beautiful display of
glass and china. First, of course, you are
served with eggs. Cooked how? Well,
only the chef knows, but you may be cer
tain that every’ day for a month they are
cooked in some more different and more
intricate way. After that follow the usual
courses that would bo served at an elaborate
lunch.
WHERE LEISURE AND PLEASURE ABOUND.
Then we all drift into the saloon; this is a
long, beautifully furnished room having
special parts of it dedicated to special
nationalities, and about which, prettily
enough, the women dispose themselves, if
they think their gowns are in order. A
young American girl, who is in her tennis
get-up, is sitting stiffly on a quaint old
chair that might have bee a carved for a
father confessor; an Englishwoman with
hair like the raven’s wing (by-the-by, why
do we ever say that? Who ever sees a
raven close enough to know just the color
of his wing?|, and who is picturesque in a
white gown, has gone off into an ulcove,
where a Moorish effect is produced by the
U3O of deep, rich colors, while the hostess
herself, dressed in a muslin, is seated on a
sprigged couch that certainly must have
been made in tho days of Louis the XIV.
Now everybody is arranging what they
will do with themselves. Some to drive,
some to play tennis, some very energetic
souls to show their skill at cricket, learned
from tho Euglish tutor, and some men, on
scientific turn bent, to show what expert
billiardists they are. So you do what you
please. You can gossip about the fashions,
or ym can read the historv of the old
house. You can gain strength and health
battling with the tennis or cricket balls, or
you can drive out belli and a wonderful pair
ot ponies managed by the most beautiful of
Parisieunes aud visit at a neighboring
chateau.
WITH A PRETTY WOMAN TO POUR TEA.
Five o’clock brings everybody together
again—to have tea and see the children. Tea
is really tea, nothing being served with it
but bread and butter, s me simple coke,
aud a little fruit. The hostess is in a
Japanese got-up, for Pierre Loti has made
tho Japanese craze spread afresh, and the
ambar-hued beverage is served at a quaint
little table from under a huge Japanese um
brella that occupies one comer of the draw
ing-room. Everybody has something to tell
about what has happened since they last met,
and the something to ted when it comes
from a French bra n is always interesting.
Tne children are simply dressed and
pleasant, plump little dots. They are
handed about something after the fashion
of sugar plums, and are ready for a romp
or a play with whoever may be ready to
romp with them. This is the time when
les c mvenances aro forgotten—that is, in
'.heir disagreeable sense, for a French
woman never forgets to be polite under
any circumstances. When she is young
she has grace of manner aud wonderful
tact by iuher.tancs; as she grows older it is
all increased, until it is marvelous, from
experience.
GOSSIP OF A CHATEAU DINNER.
Seven o’clock finds the place deserted,
everybody is dressing for dinner, and 8
o’clock sees lovely women in most beautiful
frocks and men in immaculate dress suits,
seated at a table that would have delighted
the eyes of Luculius. The dinner is more
than elaborate, but the amount of gold
silver, fine glass, and china on the table
makes it not only a joy forever, but to the
English eye pos-ess and of special value—a
value counted by it far beyoud the beauty.
After j'our'soup and fish you begin to talk
with your neighbor.
She is an American married to a French
man, and she tells you this funny little
story anent a famous beauty, who had teen
betrothed to her husband before she over
met him.
Said she: “I was a little under the
weather, aud so when she called I hid to
ask her to come to my boudoir. On my
writing de-k stood a picture of mv husband,
one ho had given me when I first met him,
aud which was framed very gorgeously in
silver. After she had talked about hersslf
a while she went over to this picture gave
it the most loving look, aud said. ‘Ah! he
Imd that taken for we!’ Angry fOf course
1 wos angry, but my native wit didn’t de-
-ert me. I waited for a few minute; after
sayi g, ‘Did hef And thru I reached out
an 1 got al. tile case from the table just be
i side me. opened it, and sbo wed her ihe pic-
I ture inside It was the heads of my husband
i and myseif taken together oa our wedding
I trip, and then I announced, ‘He had that
taken for me.’ I don’t think sie will bore
! rue again.” Yju couldn’t help but laugh, it
was such an intensely womanly thing to do,
and I really think it took an American
woman lo do It.
THE FRENCHMAN OF TO-DAY.
Opposite you is tho Frenchman of to-day.
He is no longer the ratner effeminate,rather
undersized man with a waxed mustache
but be is a well-built, big fedow, who has
b en trained after tho English fashion with
the French ideas. Th it is, he has the En
glishman’s manliness and tho Frenchman’s
courtesy, the Englishman's good looks and
*lhe Frenchman’s exquisite nearness. He is
ne irest to perfection a man can get unless he
went up and sat on a pillar aud made all the
women in tne w rid unhappy. Years ago
this type was unknown in Frauce, but it"is
curious to see how the men have seized on
the Engiisa virtues without losing their
own, and with hat approval the women
look on. Even Mme. Bernhardt’s great de
sire was to have her son look like an En
glishman.
TACT OF FRENCHWOMEN.
Whenever we English-speaking people
get among the French we ought to kick
ourselves metaphorically, if we are women
and physically if we are men. Why l 80l
cause, if a Frenchwoman knows ten En
glish words sne will do her best to h<Jp you
out if you don't speak much French, she
will never smile at your atrocious accent,
and she will encourage you until you think
your words, which have a flavor of South
Fifrh avenue with a strong cockney ele
ment added to them, are the purest Paris
ian. Then you grow courageous and
plunge in, and after that you have a very
good time. In a similar situation an En
glishwoman thinks it’s very funny wheu a
Frenchman rries to speak English, she
doesn’t hesitate to laugh and she shows no
sympathy whatever in his struggles to be
polite to her.
THE MODERN’ FRENCHWOMAN.
Englishwomen do not compare well with
French ones. The latter is civilized, the
other is on the road to it, with the odds
against her getting there. Her idea of wit
is a practical joke; her idea of after-dinner
conversation is an off-color story. She lias
few big virtues aud no little ones. The
French woman would die for a cause or a
belief, would work for it. would intrigue
for it, and would be capable of enduring
almost anything for the sake of a friend.
She understands the arc of sni'ill talk
without indulging in a scandal, and gossip,
to her, possesses no attraction unless it is
witty; for be.uty, brains and brawu she
has a great admiration, but she can be
gentle and kind, sweet and sympathetic,
where none exists.
She reverences blood, and an impover
ished Indy from the Faubourg is treate 1 as
a guest of more honor millionaires,
whose title, are reesnt, are counted of little
worth. The American woman is Dearer to
tho French than is the Englisn, but even
the American woman might imitate her in
some respec.s advantageously. Here are
some of tier virtues:
She looks well, which means not in a
fussy way, after her household.
She is the best of mothers aud the most
affectionate of daughters.
She is pa'ient with her husband, giving
hima smile when she knows that he de
serves something else, but believing that it
is always a better weapon thau a cross
word.
She can talk for one hour in a pleasant
way ab u: things and places, and never say
a d.sagreeable word about people.
She may be the center of attraction at the
dinner table or m the bail room, and she is
beautifuily unconscious of it.
She cun wear a cotton frock so well that
you will wonder why you ever thought silk
or velvet worth consideration.
She shows respect for every man’s relig
ion, all that she shudders at is lack of it.
She has read the last new book, seen the
last l ew picture, heard the last new opera,
but if you haven’t she never makes you con
scious of her greater ad van’ages.
She rules in a count -y wltere Salic law
does not exist, and rules by making her
sons adore her, her father love her and her
husband respect her. Bab.
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