The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 19, 1897, Page 21

THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 1897. FOLLOWING What Some Do With Goin That Is Fraudulently Obtained | Say, podner, kin ye help a fellow out Unight? Gimme a nickel er a dime if ye can’t do no better. IUIl belp toward get- tinz me a meal.” I locked at the specimen of humanity standing beside me, supplicating with ex- | He was | tende¢ paim for a smali coin. streng-looking, able-bodied and certainly in the best of health. His clothes were worse than are worn by the average no reason why: he should ask alms. What manner of man can he be? I asked myself. Then I remembered that € 1s Work on the ranches in different parts of the State and asked him why he was not out picking hops or fruit. ¥or answer he cursed But as his was the third reGuest of «me k:nd that I had received within ir I determined 1o investigate the and see just how zens reaily needed is class oi cit . I spent a whole evening in the vicinity of the old Hall park and all sums 1o all who asked. I fol- on s many of ttese as I cou in the course of five hours 1 received eighteen appeals for cid, and out of the v ¢ two were des The the c of and a I hadonly a rner taking sireets pock my speaker cer to be hu ou can’t spare of ccffee and a t tdc 1 nore. here. He shot wes after him. = d the 25 cents andel,” he de- ple fluid was served cents in change. ocketed the money place, where be re- The stuff pe had ed and went he got a bottie of wine 10 cents. This laft him he bought two cigars. « upto park and falil- lapsed 1nto a state bor- efaction. All efforts availing. who asked aid ly frauds that I rave apiece, and saw it y to een 5cen nearest sa Some of k y had disap- ’ 1 asked a feet tall. trying o for he country my station of life. rade, and I have to ng my position.” “you can go out and nth and come back here : your pocket. They want men kin earn $40 in a ed, tempted a moment. near es and 1n different parts Santa Clara County.” How 1 goin’ to git there?”’ 1ly about twenty miles., ina ‘Dow You can walk it ‘Good- and he waved his hand at me as he disappeared in the vicinity of the cheap saloons. The death of Mrs. Antonio Terry has cver the old scandals, and newspapers are hashing the old story with a recollection details which are gradually growing In a few years there will not be any recple who remember the tripartite social drama which for a decade gave the quidnuncs something to talk about in the three great cities of the modern worla. Itis a story of two fair women and one man who was not fair—a story of love and passion and jealousy and treason and revenge. On oi:e of the personages the real marble has just been’laid, and out of the cast. The two others she still hold the stage. Of these one was the daughter of a Cali: iornia Chief Justice. Iften years ago any one was entitied to be called the belle of San Francisco it was surely Sybil S8ander- To a formi which Praxiteles might modeled she united a face worthy of on. Greu Ler rounded contours were the perfection 1 symme her mouth was sweetness eii; Ler glance affected to reveal a wbering passion, which, happily for man’s peace, is rarely vouchsafed 1o the possessors of beauty. To these natural charms of person she added the gift of song, which had been sedulously culti- vated under the best masters; she had tiree more motes in her upper register other singers, and they were intoxi- g. Men of the world who watched » development of this bewilching cres- ondered how her destiny would none of them succeeded in cast- er horoscope. There came a day when strange whis- rers floated through the air; there wasa :;or) that the fair Sybil, like the Countess of Amaegin, Avalt tout donne, sa beaute de colombe, Etsom umour, The Comte de Sal agne in this case was a =talwart Italian with flashing eyes :_md ‘Lie torso of a giadiator, who was a brick- rade. His name wes Cardinali. vei; £ layer As be bricks he lzid in a,wall, he sang a war song of his country with a tenor voice so robust that Mavpleson, passing that way, listened with rapt ears. British gold temptea the muscular bricklayer to throw workingman and altogether there seemec | me and walked | inly lookea hag- *Gimme a 1 kin | ece of bread fto rof a re adirty bar e word work was | v all tongues in the country wagging | grace was in ail her movements; | apped the mortar between the | i But the next man who asked aid needed | |it. It hardly seems possible that such a | case could exist in the midst of plenty. I | have seen many hungry dogs, but-only {one bungry man. The latter was the most ravenous. | He looked at me a long time before he | made bis appeal. ‘“Please, sir,” he said, shamefacedly, ‘‘can you give me 5 cents? | Tam very hungry.” I gave him 25 cents and the sight of it | | aimost dazed him. | “Thank you, sir; thank you, sir,” he al- | most gasped and ran like.a wild man for the nearest bakery. Tnrowing the coin on the counter, be seized a loaf of bread from ihe pile and be- gan stufling it down bis throat. He | 1‘ hardly took time to bresk it, but snapped | atit ke a famished wolf. The man be- bind the counter handea out 20 cents | change unconcernedly, as if he were used | to such almost tragic sights every day of | his life. Taking his chanee, the hungry wman walked out on the sidewalk, still eating at the dry bread. “You better go and get some soup or something hot,” I suggested. | “No, sir,”” he said, lookingz at his re- | | maining 20 cents. *“I need that to-mor- | row.” ‘ “Why to-morrow?” | “Because I am going to go home. father has a ranch near Tomales Bay. only came down here about a week ago, but all my money was stolen, and I have | not been able to get enough together 1o | get across the ferry to Sausalito. Fifteen | cents will take me there, and I will still have enough to buy a big loaf of bread, and that will last me untii I walk home."’ Needless to say this young man had a My 1 San Rafael before we parted. By this time it was getting along toward 8 o’clock. Out of the shadows of Sacra- mento street hobbled an old man, leaning | on a cane. “Please, sir, can you help me a little te- nizht?” he asked as soon as he came | witain ranse. He certainly was a pitiable-looking ob- ject—old, wrinkled and crippled and at- tired in the most ragged garments. Surely he needed money. He soon had 25 cents in his hand, and I walked a few feet across Sacramento street and the.a back again and wstcued hir. 1 good dinner and enougn to pay his fare to f Instead of going toward Clay he went toward Market and walked at a good deal faster rate than he was going when 1 first saw him. Perbaps he would turn down California. But no, he kept on. Past Pine, Bush, Sutter. Where can he be go- ing? Siill on, past Post and walking quite fast now. He reached Market, crossed ana went down Third toward Mission. Wise old man! Perhaps he knows a cheaper restaurant in this part of town than the other part can boast of. But he turned up Mission instead of down. A few steps and he reached the opera- | house, rushed to the box-office and paid | 25 cents for a seatin the dresscircle. 1 him slide into his seat and stretch him- \W/INE | got u ticket and followed him in and saw | self out comfortably, as if he were a mil- lionaire. Leaving the theater and getting back to i Kearny and Clay two old women who said | they were starving made appeals ta me. However, they were both in such an ad- vanced stage of intoxication that I knew they were not deserving, so I gave each a | nickel and saw them go into a liquor- store. It was now after 9 o’clock, and the hurry and bustle of the street was sub- siding. No one had asked for aid for a | whole half Lour, and I was thinking that perhaps no one would come. “‘Please, Mister, will you give me 5 cents? I couldn’t sell no papers to-night, an’ ain’t had no dinner.” Poor child. He was not more than 10 vears of age, and wore garments that evi- dently belonged to somebody else. His i occogecee® B Seece ]cont was too large and his pants too | sliort; but he was polite when he made | his pitiful appeal and beld his hat in his | hand in the most respectful manner. | “'Ain’t had a bite to eat since morning,” | be continued while I was surveying him. | Ot course, the child was hungry, very | hungry, and I gave bim 25 cents, as I had | given to others. | The youngster thanked me and made a | jump for a car that was passing. This | was surprising, but I kept my eye on him | and saw him jump off on the other side | after the car had gone less than half a | block. Following him I saw the little | rascal go to a street stand and there invest | bis whole 25 cents in candy. He was par- | ticular about the kind that he bought and lbnrgained with the man so as to be sure and get the worth of his money. Having i | man explained. s 2 12 THE STREET BEGGARS IN THE HOURS OF NIGHT Only a Few Need Money to Buy Necessaries of Life filled his pockets with thesweets he becan eating at a lively rate, whistling the latest songs of the day at the same time. Kvi- dently he was happy. The next avpeal was made by an oid man. He asked for 5 cents, if I could spare no more. “My wife and littie girl are in a room up here and none of us has had a thing to eatsince morning,” he sa in a faltering voice. And 1 thoughtIsaw tears in his eyes. He took the 25 cents and was most profuse in bis thanks. Ira mediately he started across the park and up Washington street. A Chinese store was still open and he bought a can ot corned beef and a loaf of bread, afterward continuing his way up the street. Just before reaching Stockton street he | stopped before an old building, on which there was a “for rent” sign. Assuring himself that it was tbe right place he as- cended the creaking and dusty stairs. I listened at the foot some moments, ana then heard a child’s voice cry, 'Oh, papa, did you get us something to eat?’ This assured me that all was well and I went up. There wasno light except what came through a dirty window from a street- lamp, but I could hear voicesin a front room and knocked at the door. Instantiy all became silent, and I called that it was all right. Siowly the door opened. “Please don't make us get out!”’ came from the old man and the child at the same time. An electric light illuminated the room very well, and [ could see the cccupants plainly. All were eating raven- ously, the child, a oright little girl, giv- ing vent to cries of delight every few mo- ments. The woman was cuddled up in a corner and had nothing to say. She ap- peared to be an Indian. “Nobody was in the house, so we just took the room for the night.” The old “We won’t hurt notb- ing.” There was no furniture in the room and | oniy a few articles and a carpet-bag rep- resented the family’s property. I offered to take the family over to a hotel and pay for aroom for them, but they all bezged to be given the money instead. “We will do very well here, and the money will buy us something to eat to-morrow.” I gave the money and returned to Kearny street. It was getting on toward midnicht, when a little girl not more than twelve years old asked for money. She was the picture of misery, poorly clad and hungry looking. “Only five cents, please.” But Igave her twenty-five cents, and she dis- appeared down Sacramento- strest ani into a saloon. Then she laid the money on the counter and got in exchange a bottle of whisky. “This is for mamma,” she explained when I asked her why she bought whisky when she needed other things so badly. “Where does your mother live? [ a-ked. “That’s her business,” the child replied, as she started down Sacramento street. [ followed and saw her turn the corner of Montgomery. Ikept her in signt untii she reachea Jackson street, where she dis- appeared in a dark allev ana I lost her. Before I got back to Kearny street again a wreck of a once strong man made an an- peal. “Iam starving and sick,” Le said. *‘Give me a dime for food, if you cannot spare enough to pay for a nighv's lodg- ing.” The paie face and sunken eyes told a story of misery. The shivering form in- dicated a broken constitution. He got his 25 cents, and a few moments later he entered a drugstore. ‘‘T'wo-bits worth of C” isall he said, but is told hiy story. One o’clock had struck, and the streets were almost deserted. Surely there will be no more beggars. But I was wrong. *‘Say, boss, kin you help a feliow togit a bed? I ain’t had nothing to eat since yesterday.” I turned toward where the voice came from and saw my acquaintance of the early evening whom I rad left in a state of stupelaction on a bench in old City Hall Park. But I didn’t help him to get a bed, WiLL SPARK {down the trowel and to take service ‘with the impresario. Under his guidance he | was roiling waves of melody in grand | overa at San Francisco when he met Sybil. | It was Rosalind and Orlando. They no | sooner met than they looked, no svoner | looked than they loved, no sooner loved than they sighed, no sooner sighed than | | they asked one another the reason, and | | no sooner knew tne reason than they | sought the remedy. But there is this, of bricklayers, no matter how robust and | | melodious their voices. They do not lust. | Their souls are full of the dust of their | bricks. There came a day when Cardinali | | vanished. | | 1 ‘ | ‘What became of him no one | | Enew, whether he was carried in a chariot | of fire to a place where bricks are made of | jasper and sapphire, or whether he re- | turned to his native Italy to live on olives | | and chestnuts. He passed out of fair Sybil's eye, and we next find her in Par.s, {in the famiiy of a pretended baroness, whom the simple-minded Chief Justice believed to be a lady of quaiity, but who | | was in reality the kind of noblewoman | | who figures in Fernande, and is first | | cousin to Madame de Cunche Eassee. Here she met Massenet, who is always | prowling round the world seeking what | he may devour. A giri who could take the Kiffel Tower G as easily as Tamagno { can take the high C, and who with the most exquisite fizure in the world was | willing to personate Phryne in the alto- | gether after 'Gerome's picture, was a | trouvaille indeed. He wrote “The En- [ chantress” for her and her triumph was | unquestioned; Saini-S8aens showed her | in Paryne, and at the sight the gilded | youth of Paris dribbled at the mouth. | Scandal busied itself with her name, but | those who knew the lady were aware that | she had no more heart thau a cold potato, | and that if she condescended to smile {upon an =adorer here and there it was | simply because she wanted to use his | | arm to help her ascent of the stairs of the | tempe of artistic fame. To her love was | a cruich. | The scene now changes, as the novelists say, to the fertile islund where General Weyler brandishes his sword and the palm tree waves its fluttering leaves over ausky wmaids, and sugar and tobacco used to yield more money than any captain. | | | | STUDY OF THE How Love, Beauty and Gold Combined to Produce Effects of Which the End Cannot Be Seen. general could spend. To this island there came in the early portion of this century a hardheaded Irishman named Tom Terry, who, being keen, shrewd, industrious and insensible lo heat, acquired plantation after plantation, and in the fullness ot time died worth ever so many million-, and left behind him an interesting family | of many colors, shading from ebony black to insect brown and a delicate ivory tint of yellow. One of the children, Antonio, with a fine rich umber complexion, was the favorite. To him the father left a trifle of six oreight millions, wherewith the young man proceeded to purchase a white wife in New York. His choice feil upon the elder of two sisters nam d Secor, who were as beauti- ful as tiey were gay. She1sdead now, poor thing, and charity’s veil is in order; but in the days when Ward McAilister was separating the sheep from the goats ther- was some debate over the class tc which the fair Secor belonged. Lattle recked she. In those days Antonio still was truc, and money without stint and Paris in the season were consolation for envy and malice. Children came to the pair, not quite as white as mamma would have wished—there is often some throw- ing back in these tropical families—but darlings for all that. Joy might have been eternal if a ser- pent had not crawled into the Terry Eden in the shape of S:die Martinot, with her pretty face, her sweet voice and - her roguish soubreite ways. 'Tis said there were other serpents—some of the ophi- digns are prclific—but Miss Martinot seems to have been the one who held out that the angel of the law appeared in the shape of an attorney’s clerk, with a sum- mons in a suit for a divorce brought in a Frencn court, and Antonio Terry was calied upon under the Nequet law to re- linquish his wife and children and to pay a substantial alimony. His resistance was feeble. The fair Sudie was built to work grass wilowers, and Paris swarms with amiable young ladies who do not permitsuch trifles as a stunted stature and an umber complexion to prove a barrier to honest affection. Don Antonie accepted his fate with philosophy; the Senora Terry got her decree with an allow- ance which placed ber beyond the reach of want. It was then that Sybil Sanderson, at the height of her renown and in the full flush of her beauty, crossed the path vf the amorous Cuban. A mutual attrac- tion was prompt. In bis many travels had never met so per.ect a creature as this, so lovely in face, so rapturous in figure, so gifted in voice, so thoroughiy accomplished in the arts of Parisian high society, so profoundly versed in the wiles which accomplish the subjugation of man. Compared to her Sadie Martinoi, with her weakness lor green seai, was, he thought, a sperm candle to a meteor, a milkmaid to a reigning Empress. In her art Sybil was Patti’s lineal successor; it was said that Verdi himself had expressed the wish to write a part worthy of her before he died. On the other hand, the time had come for Sybil to think seriously of the future. She had earned a great deal of money in the apple in her rosy palm. It was then lher tume, but she bad spent it all, She | was bright enough to notice that she was | no longer the drawing card at the opera ‘she had once been. She had a norrible | had been a cold irost. She had read | articles in which Emma Eames’ voice was | pronounced superior to her own. She ad- | mitted hieh notes which bad thrillea the Parisians were losing taeir tone and deli- cucy. Byand by tie Tower Eiffel would be a memory. She wes still young, but when the voica begins to age deterioration proceeds rapidly. Here was a man who had seen the world, bad wandered through 1ts devious paths and its leafy lanes. He had probably outlived the appetite for pastures new. It might be possibl: 1o make Lis corral so pleasant wit: such brimming Leaps of succulent fodder that he would not want to jump over the gate. [ | | i | | | | i to love her whether they would or no. ‘She would surely enslave this little colored gentleman, = Tohere was no doubt about his wealth. With all his wildness he had kept his expenditure well within bis in- come. And his Jittle weaknesses, such as his propensity to break light canes over ladies’ backs, might be overcome by.a proper course of tuition. Reasoning of this sort, on one side and the other, brought these two people to the mind that they ought to marry. 1t was easier to form than to execute the resolution. A French court had zranted a separation beiween Mr. and Mrs, Terry, butit bad not authorized the former to remarrv; and French courts have a way of compelling obedience to their decrees. | recoltection of a season at Brussels, which | to herself that those wonderful | | Sybit had tested her power to compel men | through the Pays du Tendre Don Antonio | j visit to this country and was telling her | friends that Mr. Terry had instituted pro- | ceedings in French courts which would enable him to marry her without resort- | ing to South Dakota, that Mrs. Terry ap- | plied to those same courts for an increase of her allowance to §i000 a month and | coupled the application with a peti- | tion for a divorce on the grounds of her husband’s relations with Miss Sanderson. This was a thunderbolt. Miss Sander- son’s name had not besn mentioned in the former proceedings for a separation; there were so many co-respondents as to whose relation there was no question | that it was not necessarv to bring the fair Californian into the case. Now she may be dragged to the front and openly attacked as the accomplice of the derelict husband. This may not be done from malice. It wasto bring the cace within the purview of that provision of the French law which ceclares that no trans- gressor shall benefit by a decree of divorce to marry the partaer of his guilt. What the court thought on the point has not | yet been shown by a final decision, but Mrs. Terry’s application for an increase of her allowance to $1000 a month has been granted. And now the stumbling-block in the way of Sybil’s happiness is removed. Poor | Grace Secor, who used to be the gayest of the gay, ihe life and soul of the merriest society in New York, the lovely girl who laughed at everything, for whom no frolic | was too risque, no dance tco daring, no flirtation too wila, who seemed 1o live to turn men’s heads and to bring Mrs. Grundy’s gray hairs with sorrow to the grave—noor Grace lies in a cold vault, over which a yew tree casts a zloomy shade, in which Parisian picknickers will munch their pommes friters. Will the widower pass through the door which her death has opened and make the primadonna his wife,now that he may law- fully do so, or will he say as Guy Living- stone said to the Bellasys: ‘“Madam, be- twez=n you and me there lies the dust of a newlv made grave, and I dare not cross w2 There is a child, too, a litue girl, some | 12 or 14 years old, who is now bereaved of | both her parents. What will become of | tv come to the surface when the pressure It chanced while Sybil was on a recent | her? The courts will award her custody a is relaxed. SANDERSON-TERRY ROMANCE to her father, of whoiwa she has probably heard nothing except stories of cruelty, his faithlessness and his treason to the wife of his youth. Can she grow up bear- ing him thedecent filial affection which a child should feel for her parent? Or will she ripen into womanhood cherishing the bitter memory of her mother's wrongs, deserted throughout her life for ballet- dancers, ladies of gallantry and an opera singer? It would przzle a psychologist to speculate on the nature which thsex- perience of the chila will engender in the woman. In French novels, especially novels of the Zola school, the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children; study father and mother, vou can tell what the child will be. Is it so in real life? Or, are the impressions which the plastic soul receives in childhood effaced by the firmer marks that are stamped on the adolescent mind? The little Terry girt will go to a con- vent—one of those convent schools whers the daughters of the French aristocracy are educated, and where she will be sur- rounded by kindness and tenderness and | trained in ignorance of everything that is bad and base and foul in the actual world. The sorrows of her childhood and their cause will ba tabooed. She will hear of | nothing that does not make for pure life, unselfishness, charity, kindne s and gen- erosity. Her best instinc's will be de- veloped and strengthened; her weak- nesses will be checked, ani she wiil be taught to be on her guard arainst them. So far as one mind can be projected into another the admirable women who con- duct conventual schools in France will in- fuse their own virtues inio the young scholar. Will they succeed in obliterating the hereditary - taint derivea from tne father? 4 Goodness is like speiling. You can’t learn either at school. A person who is gifted with an accurate eye learns to spell by noting the sequence in which letters follow each other in words. If the eye ba inaccurate or :nuttentive twenty vears of spelling-class will not umount to much for orthography. And so, perhaps, where oblique instincts are inherited they mav be suppressed for a iime, but they are apt Joun BONNER.