The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, August 30, 1896, Page 18

18 THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, AUGUST 30. 1896. A HOUSE FARTY AT "WIETUNELTEE [N SURREY Being the Further Experiences of Mrs. Whitehat in Merry Old England WILLOWMERE, E~crLAxp, Aug. 7.— The invitation was the first source of contention. The envelope was addressed to Mrs. Blanke; the letter within was couched in terms to be accepted, we were sure, in the widest and most liberal sense. ~Of course,’” said Mrs. Blanke to ner husband, ‘“he includes you; and he can- not expect me to leave Tommy at home— and if Tommy goes I can’t be bothered with him, and I must have Marfe.” “He"’ was our host, and the owner of a cottage in Surrey; he had once sugzgested a visit upon some nebulous future ocea- | sion, and had been delicately reminded of 1t at every opportunity. The result was not entirely satisfactory. Every member of the heterogeneous family could call to mind moments of elucidation, in which the invitation had been addressed individually to her. Mrs. Whitehat explained that the term ‘‘cot- tage”’ in England was not to be taken too literally; it was not of necessity modestly lIimited fo one room, a livin’-room, a settin’-room, a drawin’-room and a dinin’- room, with an attic in which a corner would have to be chipped from each article of furniture in order to close the doors and windows. Mrs. Whitehat had culled ber informa- tion from the most reliable sources. Her literary associations were of the most re- fined and highbred character. “The Duchess” had established an unalterable bucolic ideal in her mind, from which no self-respecting country house could depart. The party assembled at the station con- sisted of Mr. and Mrs. Blanke, Master Tommy, Master Tommy’s 1nseparable playmates, two doves in a capacious wicker cage; Master Tommy’s maid “Marie,’ cailed “‘The Bun” by Mrs Whitehat, who had spent a week in Pa; Mrs. Whitehat herself and the unserupu- lous journalist. The Juggage consisted of six trunks, four satchels, the above- mentioned doves, a black bottle with milk for Tommy, a paper bag of soft crackers and sundry packages containing articles that had been gathered up at the last mo- ment. Our host, Mr. Langham Graves, arrived a few moments before the departure of the train. His attire was “neat but not gaudy,” and his modest handbag and an overcoat suggested, perhaps, an elegant simplicity, but not that multiplicity of tennis and boating and dinner costumes Mrs. Whitehat had impiied from his zen- eral appearance and bad insisted upon with that firm sweetness we knew too well to combat. In an hour—little Tommy's exploits had made it seem a week—we arrived at our destination and had exchanged the hot, sultry, smoky London air for the freshest, most exhilarating, pure-laden atmosphere in England. The village itself looked like a village out of a comic opera; the ancient houses, with gable windows set in the sunken roofs or blinking under the eaves, were overgrown with vines, elematis and roses and Virginia creepers. The inhabitants stood staring at our cavalcade with the stupidity and mechanical movement of a badly trained chorus. Every detail seemed arranged with an eye for the pic- turesque effect. o RY terest scattered over the wide valley, in- closed by an irregular line of low hills that melted into the sky. He alsodilated upor the absolute peace and quiet of the life to which he was about to introduce us, the’| uninterrupted placidity of the day. Mrs. Whitehat looked out dreamily over the hills dotted bere and there with ancestral castles, she bad ne doubt in the world. This was the proper background for those lawn parties and flirtation teas and country balls and other rustic enter- tainments she could have written about with such eloquence. “You have many neighbors?” she in- quired tentatively. “Yes," repliod?: . Graves, “that is Lord Sandhill’s place Dehind those trees—" Mrs. Whitehat hastily straightened her hat, she looked very cheerful indeed. “It must be rather a bore,” she remarked, “to have to continue all your social duties when you come down in order :0 get rid of them—to—to lie fallow, so to speak and—and rest—and have real country pleasures, cows and croquet and sunrises, and—and—making cheese and things.”’ *‘Yes,”” laughed our host, “that is just my view of i1t. We never call and the neighpors never call on us. Thereis an asylum for'convalescent lunatics in the neighborhood, sometimes they come wan- Y dering mn.” Mrs. Whitehat relapsed into a melan- choly silence. The cotiage was called Willowmere and it certainly verified her prognostications. It was large and old, with quaint windows and hospitable doors. A riotous garden, full of old-fashioned flowers and cats, sar- rounded it—the old-fashioned flowers were a gay rosemary and rue and phlox and geranium and stick roses, dropping leaves and leavings on the crisp grass. The cats were 3 joy, too, chiefly to little Tommy, who could be seen at any time on the terrace, amicably compressing two Mrs. Whitehat hid an acute disap- pointment in the stolidity of the “yeomanry,’” as she had already termed them in the letter she was mentally en- gaged in sending home to an impres- sionable and loquacious friend. “They all dropped a curtsey as we passed’’ was the wording she would have chosen, “and oulled their forelocks with the deepest respect.” ; 3 In reality one or two of the boidest and least bow-leggea of the children ran after us with feeble bowls and most disrespect- ful remarks addressed to Bathsheba Florence, the patient donkey, who dragged the basket cart with little Tommy cheering and squawking like a cockatoo. Our host pointed out the places of in- sprawling kittens on his infant . chest, Sy i while those upon whose tails he was always stepping or from theirinfuriated parent. George was the name of ihe infuriated savage miaows proceeded from parent. His history was an avpalling record. He was regarded with some dis- favor and was not considered by his fam- ily to have properly lived up to his voea- tion in life. He had been a fine kitten in his youth—the hopes entertained for his personal appearance had be:n rudely dashed by his growing up a decidedly plain cat. He had ‘also been credited with gentle- manly feeling, and his continoal habis of having on an average four families a year could not fail to be a grief to his would-be admirers. His first family, which (perhaps owing to his education) seemed to come asan unpleasant surprise to him, were con- cealed by him with commendable tact in a remote corner of the wash’us, and were there left {o expire. After the first shock he seemed to get accustomed to-the idea, and subsequent families met with geniler treatment. But the confidence of George’s owners was shaken, and on the survival of a small male kitten it was instantly christened Jane Stella to prevent disap- pointment. Mrs. Whitehat settled herself to the contemplation of the scenery with com- mendable cheerfulness. - She inspected the gardens and the stables and the pig- gery and- the hennery, and asked intelli- gent questions about the crops and the cultivation of beans. She regarded the cows with interest and listened to their lowing as to sweetest music. I grieve to have to quote again from an unpublished letter to her friend: “The place is tenanted byjanimals; the €OWS never stop—they bray from morn till dewy eve and from dewy ‘eve till dawn. We play eroquet on the lawn by ourselves and change partners to add to the excite- ment. We smile at each other, but I could crack those balls into the next yard—if there was a yard—as we go senselessly hammering them about the lawn, Little Tommy rolls about, and my only diversion is when he and one of a million cats and the croquet-balls come into violent col- lision. We go out for carriage exercise in the afternoons; the carriage is a basket with room for two. Bathsheba Florence is a donkey. Her family tree would be Her im- quite an interesting document. mediate ancestor must have been a cat. She shows the most remarkable capacity for climbing trees. Then, further, a terrier dog. We were crossing the heather re- cently, a lonely moor on which a pensive billygoat was straying. ‘Sheba’ gave a snort. ‘My long lost brother,’ she seemed to ejacunlate, kicked out her legs in every direction and fled in hot pursuit. The billygoat treated her with scorn and con- tumely and fled likewise, Sheba was only stopped in her wild career by the appear- ance of a rabbit, on which her tamer in- stincts awoke, and she stopped as sud- denly as a clock, to brood over the hole in which the bunny had taken refuge. The men push the basket and the donkey up all the hills and the legend that Bath- i 3 . sheba in moments of excitement has ac- quired the habit of falling flat on her face Jends a pleasing uncertainty to the situa- tion. Ah! we spend our time in riotous living! The country is interesting; there is a lovely little cottage that dates back to Edward VIII or somebody, and & number of houses where somebody wrote some- thing or other, and other exciting bits of information. “The house itself is lovely. A maid brings tea at an unearthly hour and drags in a green and white footbath and two cans of hot water. You can tell her ap- proach by the ‘clashing of cymbals.’ The water is of a bright red. Itis sup- posed to have healing powers. You take it off with a tow You have no idea how fresh the air is and how I enjoy the simple life, the calmness and the absence of fatigue My dear, I hastily wrote this sentiment, for our host was hunting for a pen. I could hold my hand carefully over the top of the letter, but I thought it better not to pause.’”’ * * * I hesitate to go {further with this veracious chronicle. The days pass.. -Mrs, Whitehat pervades the gardens and walks. Her pose is one of artless simplicity, in keeping with'the romantic solitude. She wears wreaths of roses in- her hair and carries-a volume of poems in her hand (and Ouida’s latest in her pocket!) She strokes the cats and holds one arm about little Tommy and speaks only in words of one syllable. She sings as she walksa very old English song: Sumer is icumen in Bbude sing cuceu, Groweth sed and bloweth med And springth the wde nu, 8ing cuccn. In spite of her simulated repose 1 imagined something expectant—a slight the capsiringsof *‘the bun” and little Tommy’s innocent glee.’ On Sunday, however, she is rewarded at last. A young man is seen in the distance, the silver gleam of his bicycle may be perceived leaning against the doorway to ““The Dog and Pheasant Inn,” where he pauses to see the curious interior, the quaint, dark, picturesque interior, fuil of cider-jugs and beer. He is not a Dook nor a curate, but Mrs, ‘Whitehat cares not for that. He is the first male man she has seen for five days, with the exception of our host, on whom her simple and unaffected gayety has had a soporific effect, and the silent Mr, Blanke, who is steeped in idleness and ob- livious enjoyment of nothing at all H.I watchfulness in her manner. It is im- possible to her idea that none of the neighbors will call; that all these bucolic merry-makings of which the standard authors give such accurate descriptious should be fictitious. Why doesn’t the curate call? And the vicar or the vicar's unattractive daughters, who bring into greater prominence the radiance of the heroine? Where is the young lad with a magnificent estate and an insane wife con- ceated about the premises? Where is the Dook who blesses everybody in facetious and familiar terms in the iast chapter? Alas! Mrs, Whitehead sits in the garden and waits, or at the window and watches, but no one comes except one brainless, convalescent lunatic who is attracted by makes reckless puns and his laughteris unfailing and loud—his predilection for his lawful spouse and little, little angel Tommy is no less evident. Mrs. White- hat does not consider him a man—heisa creature. The new arrival rings the bell with an admirable courage, all unconscious of his impending doom. Mrs, Whitehat, with white roses In her hair, leans against the piano. She has hastily left the window; ber muslin gown floats about her, stiff and crisp against the blackness of the piano; her eyes have a far-away expression ; they shine with an inward liznt; she sees noth- ing—nothing of this mundane world— hears no sound of the young man falling over an umbrella in the hall, or of hisen- trance into the little reception-room. She is lost in reveries of a calm, sweet, rustic nature, Ah! the start of sarprise! Mrs. White- hat is recalled to this earth at last, and to the perspiring and flushed young man who stands staring at her, helpless and transfixed. There is a calm determination anout Mrs. Whitehat not to be lightly spoken of. The young man and Jane Stella follow her from spot to spot. Jane Stella claws her his rival surreptitiously at every oppor- tunity and is the victim of some profanity and several sharp little backward kicks. The ingenuity of Mrs. Whitehat reaches a sublime climax in the afternoon, when a mild interest having been shown in the attractive stranger by several of the other members of the family they both dis- appeared and were seen a little later by the disconsolate, bereaved ones in the basket- cart, with Bathsheba Florence in her wild- est moods, pursuing an imaginary goat. Our host took a kodak view of the party, which was a faint retribution. Perhaps it would be profitable Iiterature to detail the incidents of each day, Mrs. ‘Whitehat being an inexhaustible theme for the poet and the artist. My humble pen fails me. Mr. Blanke developed a latent talent and began a sonnet ad- dressed to her, the first ringing line of which haunts my memory: As I went bumping down the mellow lea— On the last day of the stay her spirits rose to a degree; she volunteered to carry the cage with thre doves or to put the kit~ tens little Tommy was secreting under his apron in her traveling bag. She over- whelmed our host with expressions of gratitude for his charming hospitality and almost wept tears of passionate regret over her own bitter fate that she had not been born to the country. When the departure was actually ac- complished she indulged in wild and ir- repressible gayety, bursting into song as the gate closed, “Sumer is icumen in.” She sang and waved her hands at a con- valescent lunatic, who promptly bad a relapse. We caught a last glimpse of Willow- mere as we descended to the station. It was late in the afternoon, the cotiage was bathed in a luminous glow, the flowers in the garden seemed to have melted to- gether in masses cf brilliant bloom, the purple heather ran down the hills likea flame and Bathsheba Florence stood against the sunset sky with the rollicking breeze blowing her hair across her eyes. Vax Dyck BrowN. NE TALE OF LATTER-DAY WITCHCRAFT IN WHICH THE POSSESSOR OF A FEATHER-BED WAS HAUNTED Stories of witchcraft are usualiy relegated to the middle ages, but occasionally an interesting one is found in our own nineteenth century. Sucha story comes from one of the villages of Leicester, England, where one of the actors in the adventyye is still living, an old Wesleyan preacher named Evans, whose integrity is unimpeachable. Bet Charity, who lived in one of the midland counties about forty vears ago, was regarded by her neighbors with suspicion, and was called the old witeh, though no one was able to point to any particular act in this line. In course of time she became fatally ill, and on her deathbed she asked her husband to give her feather bed to her daughter. Her husband promised to do so, but the eldest son would not permit him to give the bed away during his life, and on the father's death ‘insisted that the bed should be sold with the other furniture, and the proceeds divided between the chil- dren. The bed was bought at the'sale by a Mrs. Bins, who thought she had not only got a bargain but a luxury. It was placed on top of the other bed ‘occupied by Mr. Bins and his wife. But when the new owners retired to rest they found the feather bed was not so soft and comfortable ‘as they had expected; they could not rest on it, and after some time they pitchea it on the floor, Mrs. Bins remarking she would see what made it so hard in morning. The next day she sent her little boy to a neighbor’s to play, telling him there was a lot of Bet Charity’s bits of coal in the bed, and she was going to pick them out. Tlie boy naturally told what his mother had seid to him, and the neighbors at once knew that it was Bet Charity’s hoarded gold, not coal, that was picked out. The bed was again put on the bedstead and Bins and his wife retired at the usual hour that night, remarking that the bed was more comfortable. They had not been asleep long, however, when they were awakened by some one banging a boxlid down with great force. Bins jumped out of bed at once, got a light and found that the box was securely locked; he also found that nothinz had been touched in it, to his great relief. There was no more rest for them that night, nor any other night. As soon as they got to sleep they were awakened by all kinds of strange noises they could not ac- count for. The want of rest at last began to be yery hard on Bins, so he told his min- ister, Rev. Evans. Bins said it was sometimes like a heavy cart going up and down stairs; other times it was like the drawers were pulled out and banged with great force. Evans’ curiosity was aroused and he proposed that Mrs. Bins should sleep with Mrs. Evans and he would sleep with Bins. The first two nights nothing hap- pened, but the third night they heard the soundof a heavy horse coming upstairs. They immediately jumped out of bed and turned on the light, but could see nothing. For two weeks nothing further was heard, so Evans concluded to 20 home. The first night Mrs. Bins returned home the noise came back with redoubled fury, Bins finally determined to visit a wizard who lived seven miles away, near Belvoir Castle. He told him their troubles and said he and his wife thought it was Bet Char- ity come again. The wizard, whose name was Singleton, smiled and asked : “Have you got anything of hers?’ ‘“We bought her feather bed at the sale and have had no Peace since.”’ “‘Have you got it now ?"’ “’Yn; but it is not in the house. It has been for some weeks in a friend’s bed- room.” “My men, does it not strike you that [it cannot be noise? Whom does it affect the most?"’ Bins told him his wife was simply wasting to a shadow. “You are quite right about the bed. That is what she well as Ido what she wants. Butitisa living woman. No dead woman can trouble you like that. I can show you who it is in that glass, But yon have first got to prom- ise me that you will not tell your wife nor any one else about it. Or, if you will pay the cost of that looking-glasstwo shillings and sixpence—I will give you a hammer and you can strike her anywhere about the body; wherever you strike her you will mark her. She has no power to touch you or she wonlnau done so long ago. All the power she has is to annoy you.” Bins refused to make the promise of secrecy, tell Evans everything. Bet Charity who causes the The wizard replied: is after, and yoa know as saying he had already promised to “But cannot something be dore to stop the annoyance?” ‘“Yes; you go home and clear everything out of the room but the bed; have a scythe ready to lay your hands on, and when you hear anything you must get out of bed instantly and swing the scythe about the room, and youn will strike fire against some- thing. When you have done that you can come back and tell me. You can have one friend steep with you, but your wife had better sleep out of the house, an i you must be in the dark.” That night the friends retired as directed. They heard a slight noise and got up and used the scythe, but to no effect. The next night at 10 o’clock they again heard the noise coming upstairs. Bins ot out of bed at once and was ready as soon as it reached the room, and with the first swing of the scythe he saw a spark of fire. Early next morning Bins went to the wizard, who gave him a piece of blue paper with some strange characters on it, telling him to make a hole over tke bedroom door large enough to bury it in, and then plaster it over. The wizard told him to do this before dark, and the witch would have no power to annoy him as long as he (the wizard) lived. The noise ceased, and the Bins had unbroken peace for two years, when suddenly the noise came back with greater fury than ever. The wizard had died. Mrs. Bins died one morning a few months later, and the neighbors said she was haunted to death. Mr. Bins lived in the bouse for tour years longer, but never keard anything more from the ghost. Then the dauzhter of Bet Charity died. She left a Iotter to be given to Mr. Bins afier her death, and in it she confesced that she had paid an old woman named Polly Birch to haunt the house. She also said that when Bins used the scythe he had cut Polly’s hand very badly. She added that Polly was dead, but that if she had been alive she would never have told him. FIGADORE AND HIS TIN CASTLE The recent arrest at Sonora, Tuolumne County, of the old Mexican, Figad ore, on a charge of attempted murder, brings into view one of the o ddest and most eccentric characters of the miningz regions. Old Tuolu mne has known him since the days of 49. During the early gold excitement he worked for Sutter, and later on was in the employ of Captain Webber. His cabin, located a few hundred yards below Sonora, alongside of Sonora Creek, is made entirely of tin, excepting, of course, the rafters and corner-posts. A short distance up stream from the cabin are’the Sonora dum ping-grounds, whence this dried-up human relic, Figadore, gathers in tin cans of all descriptions. Theseare piled into a bonfire, unsoldered and flattened out, ana make material, without expense, for building purposes, Thig cabin of to-day is the third of the kind that Figadore has con- structed. The two others were built so near the middle of tne creek that the angry winter floods swept them away. But Figadore is a persevering mortal. No sooner do the waves break down his tin castle than he begins the slow and Ppatient work of collecting more tins, to be put together in the same old which i way. Even now his On Figadore’s parations. neighbors are indulging in guesses as to how long the new cabin will withstand the onslaughts of next winter’s swollen tides. creek-bottom soil peppers are the chif things grown. He has every variely of pepper plants around the cabin. It is, perhaps, a characteristic of his race that he has a weakness for tamales and *‘chile con carne,”” and the pep- persare a most necessary ingredient of the hot Mexican pre- It is a pec uliar experience to be inside Figadore’s tin cabin during a hailstorm. The effect produced suggests, so to speak, the noise of a Chinese new year celebration when enthusiasm is at its height among the Celestials. Figadore may have to ciose his career behind the wallsof a prison for his recent desperate deed, and his tin cabin, with its mud chimney and smokestack attachments, tozether with his pepper-garden, his bowlders, cobbles and brush, go rolling downstream with next winter’s torrents, and a landmark and its story be thus sent to join the hosts of traditions of the Sonora mining regions, COUPLE WHO ARE LIFE BOARDERS AT THE FRENCH HOSPITAL IN THIS CITY A hospital, even though a private one and equipped with all the latest appliances to combat disease and restore health, under the favorable conditions imparted by beautiful surroundings, an artistic building with every possible internal comfort and a corps of attentive nurses and skillful doctors, is n ot a place that one can associate with anything but suffering. If those in healih think of it av all it 1s with a feeling of thankfulness that they are enabled to, keep beyond its walls. To the sick it is a temporary home entered with fear and foreboding, and quitted with sincere rejvicing. As a rule even the very sick would prefer theéir own home were it possible to obtain there the same medical care and attention. ‘As this is rarely possible, the hospital is regarded as a disagree- able necessity called forth by the ills to which poor humanity is subject. That any one in comparative health and with means at his command should select a hospital 4s a permanent home seems hardly credible. Yet out at the French Hospital is a couple who are subject, it is true, to the occasional ilinesses that the natural infirmi- ties of old age bring, but who cannot in any sense of the word be called invalidy, who have chosen voluntarily to make it their abiding-place for the remainder of their lives. b . They are Mr. and Mrs. Henry, old residents of this City. During the twenty- eight years of their married life they lived in the same house, their own home, on Masdn street, near O'Farrell. They left it fourteen months ago to take up their resi- dence at the French Hospital. The story of their coming here is an interesting one, " By dint of hard work and unflagging industry on the part of both husband and wife they acquired a competence. Their habits were always plain, and the acquisi- tion of money did not alter them. ' Their two children passed away in infancy, and they bad no relatives here. They lived alone and unattended. If in their younger days sickness sometimes came the one waited upon the other. But as old age crept upon them, and with it a certain feebleness, they felt the need of attendance. Domestic help they founa unreliable, so they considered other means of securing personal comfort in sickness as well as in health. It might naturally be supposed thut they would have entered a home for the aged. But they had other ideas. Although they are both Germans, and neither #peaks nor understands French, curiously enough they bad been mmembers of the Krench Benevolent Society for twenty-eight years. Now they looked toward itasanold friend upon whom they might lean, not dependently, but in a most honorable and independent manner. They made arrangements with the hospital connected with the society, and by the payment of $3000 they secured for life a comfortable home at all times and nurse, medicine and medical attendance when ill. 5 M}-. Henry is quite an old man—75 years—but Mrs. Henry is only 62. The latter is a slizht, little woman, & typical German in feature, and though her hair is very gray, hfr eyes are bright and she has a quick manner in talking thatis convineing, .Seamg ber sitting-in the corricor sunning herself one wonders if she has teen a v_nlunt. but she quickly assures you she is not an invalid nor has she been one. Pos- sibly, then, her husband is sick, and she is bere with him? Ob, no; they are simply life-boarders here. As surprise is evinced at this, she explains: 2 “You it sometimes happened when we were in our 'own home that I was sick, and it was very hard for my husband to attend to everything. Then one night we were both sick together, so the idea came to us that if we were in a place like this beip could come at a moment’s notice.” “But during the intervals when you are well, don't you care to live elsewhere?"’ “'Oh, no. Come, I will show you how comfortable we are.’”” She led the way to her rooms, which are on the first ioor in the row of those as- signed to private patients. They consist of sitting-room and bedroom. The first has in it her own furniture—a lounge, several chairs, a sewing-table, dining-tanle and bureau. Bits of fancy work her hands bave made give a home-like air to the l'ool‘zl:, and over all there is a neawness characteristic of the German housewife. 'You see,’’ said Mrs. Henry, seating herself and taking up her knitting, “what nice rooms we have. And we could not be more private in our own home. We take our meals in our room and can order whatever we want. If we wish anything between meals I need only touch thre button, and if we are cold I pull thi the wall and the heater is turned on,” ! P! s rope on