Life — May 21, 1885 — page 6: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

286 Ah! shall I ever forget that night we met! Madison Square Garden was packed ; the thermometer soared up into celestial circles, and the eyes of the whole world were upon us! Sullivan was dressed in the royal purple, while I had about my waist a silken scarf embroidered with the coat of arms of Massachusetts, quartered with my own, and under- neath the motto, “ Dieu, Boston, Eternité.” Amid a cyclone of applause we mounted the platform, crossed over, and as we shook hands [ whispered to my ad- versary that I was from Boston and that my father belonged to the Handel and Haydn Society, and, as I expected, he blanched and trembled, awe-struck. I knew then that my victory was assured, and was just on the point of making the Irishman into a Walpurgi’s Night, when my wife climbed over the ropes and stepping between us said that she was not going to see her dear husband pounded under any consider- ation whatever, and then the nurses bearing our twins climbed on to the stage, and the twins joined their powerful baritones with their mother’s soprano and—well, that set- tled it. I will not linger over the agonizing scene that followed, but simply say that the fight was broken up and that I escaped the infuriated mob, but had to pay such a large for- feit that in order to keep out of the poorhouse I was obliged to accept the agency of a Safe Remedy Co., and also let my name appear in a soap advertisement along with that of Patti, Henry Ward Beecher, the Rose of Sharon and the Jersey Lily and a lot of others who in Boston would not have been considered fit to take books out of the Public Library. And now I have retired, a disgraced man, into the shades of a West Roxbury boarding-house. I have brought an action for divorce against my wife on the ground that she has failed to support me. If this is not successful I shall have to spend a winter in Newport in order to gain my object, and from what I hear of the place it will be paying a pretty dear price for my liberty. Meanwhile, time drags wearily on. “ Spring, gentle——" I mean spring is here once more, and as my ulster is in the wash, I am confined indoors. The dense twilight is deepen- ing about me, and the stars come out one by one and comfort me, for I know they are looking down upon Boston—dear, sacred city, but, ah! how changed in these last few years! Retrogressive progressiveness has taken possession of. you ; a new set of people who indulge in such vulgar revelries as horseback riding and coaching have made their appear- ance in your midst; and one or two strangers have been received civilly within your gates. Marble slabs bearing strange new names have begun to obtrude themselves upon the exclusive grandeur of Mount Auburn. Chester Park is becoming bumptious, and the “South End" drives in car- riages with liveried servants on the box. Jordan, Marsh & Co, are becoming a power in the land, and the bald-headed dome of the State House has been re-gilded and its medizval- ism destroyed ! Oh! let thy servant depart, for the glories of this world are passing away; the stepping-stones to a higher life are becom- -LIFE- ing fewer, and more—— Goodness! one of the twins has fallen out of the bed, and I must run and look after it, so no more at present. IDEAL. ACH lover has some one defect, Some lack of god-like grace, That makes him not the one elect To share her heart and place ; Though for her hand the noblest sue, She coldly shakes her head ; Until one perfect comes to woo, She vows she will not wed. . . . . . When wrinkles creep upon her brow And art adorns her cheek, There comes into her presence now The one her soul doth seek ; Full manhood in his form and eye ; A voice that thrills her through ; And yet she weds him not: the why— He seeks perfection, too. Ward Ernest Smith. ENERAL AIZPURU fainted repeatedly after his arrest at Panama. He could not bring himself to realize that there were actually any United States marines. HE Utica Hera/d speaks of an ancient landmark in the shape of a chestnut tree about 600 years old, growing near Kingston, N. Y. We met with some specimens of the old tree's first crop at a variety entertainment, the other night. A BIT OF CROSS-QUESTIONING.—Why don't you shut the door ? A NEW NOVEL AND A POLITICAL NIGHTMARE. HEN an artist leaves his special domain of form and color to portray life and love, action and disaster, crime and its punishment, in the pages of a novel, we still expect that the artist’s peculiar qualities will crop out here and there in the work of the man of letters. And this is the charm of Howard Pyle’s story, “ Within the Capes" (Scribners). The wreck of the Nancy Hazle- wood, the hurricane on the lonely Bahama Island, and the view of Rocky Creek Valley—“field beyond field, farm- house, barn and orchard, all bathed in the soft yellow sun- shine, saving here and there where a cloud cast a purple shadow that moved slowly across the hills and down into the valleys ""—these are pictures which could be painted, so sug- gestive of color and outline are the brief descriptions, comicbooks.com