“My Name is Mulldoon, I live in the Twenty-fourth Ward”—Protective Duties and the Fine Arts—“The General Muster”—A Message from Kansas City—American Cabmen—Alarming Notices in Hotels—The Chicago Fire Service—What a Fire Patrol can do in a few Seconds—Marshalling the Fire Brigades—William Winter—“Office Rules”—The Reform Club and Politics—Enterprising Reporters—International Satire—How a Man of “Simple and Regular Habits” Lives—Secretaries in Waiting—The Bisbee Murders—“Hunted Down”—Outside Civilization—“The Bazoo”—The Story of a Failure—A Texan Tragedy—Shooting in a Theatre—Evolutions of Towns.

I.

“Yes,” said Irving, “I, too, have made a few notes of ‘things to be remembered,’ as we passed together some of the last proofs of these chronicles and impressions. For instance, here is a memorandum, ‘Politics’; and it refers to General Horace Porter’s anecdotical illustration of ward politics, and to Mr. Millett’s letter on art and tariffs.”

“Let us take the story first,” I suggested.

We both remembered it; so, likewise, will several American friends of that excellent raconteur, Horace Porter, one of New York’s brightest post-prandial orators.

Irving had been making inquiries about the city government of New York, and remarking upon the curious little wooden houses away up at the further end of New York city.

“Oh,” said Porter, “those places belong to the last of the Manhattan squatters. Most of them are occupied by families, who, as a rule, pay little or no rent at all. They are on the outskirts of progress. As the city extends into their district they disappear, seeking ‘fresh woods and pastures new.’ Nevertheless some of them become quite firmly established there. They are included, for voting purposes, in the Twenty-fourth ward of the city. The houses, as you have observed, are not architecturally beautiful. All the inhabitants keep fowls and animals in their basements or cellars. As a rule nobody repairs or attends to their abodes. Occasionally in wet weather they could bathe in their cellars. Recently one of the most important men in the district was a Mr. Mulldoon, whose very practical views of city politics will be gathered by the story I am going to tell you, which also illustrates the local troubles from a sanitary point of view. Mulldoon’s premises were flooded. He was advised to apply to the Commissioner of Public Works on the subject, and to use his political influence in the matter; and he did. Entering the office of the commissioner, he said:—

“‘My name is Mulldoon. I live in the Twenty-fourth ward; I conthrol forty votes there; I kape hens; the wather has inundated my cellar, and I want it pumped out at the public expinse.’

“‘We have no machinery to do that kind of work; it does not belong to our department,’ said the officer.

“‘And be jabers if I don’t get that wather removed it will go hard wid the party. I’ll cast thim forty votes for a Dutchman.’

“‘You had better go to the fire department.’

“‘Divil a bit; it’s the wather department I’m afther.’

“‘The fire department have appliances for pumping, we have not; I recommend you to see the fire department.’

“He does so.

“Arrived at the proper officer’s desk, he says, ‘My name is Mulldoon; I live in the Twenty-fourth ward; I conthrol forty votes there; I kape hens; the wather has inundated my cellar, and I want it pumped out at the public expinse.’

“‘The work does not belong to this department, Mr. Mulldoon; we put out fires, not water. I’—

“‘Indade,’ said Mulldoon, calmly; “thin let the party look to it, for I’ll rather cast thim forty votes for a nigger than Tammany Hall shall get wan o’ them.’

“‘I was going to say, when you interrupted me, that you had better see the mayor, and get an appropriation for the sum necessary to be expended, and then you’ll have the business done right away.’

“‘An appropriation, is it? Thank ye! I’ve niver gone ag’in’ my party; but I object to having my hens drowned under my very roof.’

“Going straight for the mayor, he said, ‘Mr. Mayor, sorr, my name is Mulldoon; I live in the Twenty-fourth ward; I conthrol forty votes there; I kape hens; the wather has inundated my cellar, and I want it pumped out at the public expinse.’

“‘I am sorry I cannot help you, Mr. Mulldoon; but’—

“‘Not help me!’ exclaimed the chief of the little caucus in the Twenty-fourth ward; ‘then, by my soul, I’ll cast them forty votes for a hathen Chinee’—

“‘If you had not interrupted me, I was going to say that’—

“‘Oh, then, I beg Your Honor’s pardon; it is only just my bare rights that I am saking.’

“‘If you go to the Board of Aldermen and get an appropriation, and bring it to me, I will see that the work you claim shall be done.’

“‘Very well, then, and thank Your Honor,’ said Mulldoon, who in due course presented himself before the principal officer of the board, an Irishman like himself, and having considerable power.

“‘My name is Mulldoon; I live in the Twenty-fourth ward; I conthrol forty votes there; I kape hens; my cellar is inundated, and I want it pumped out at the public expinse. The mayor’s sent me to you for an appropriation, and, by St. Patrick! if you refuse it, divil a wan o’ them votes will ye ever get. I’ll cast them for a native American first!’

“‘I don’t see how I can get you an appropriation, Mr. Mulldoon.’

“‘You don’t; well, then, the party may go to the divil, and Tammany Hall wid it! I’m ag’in’ the lot o’ ye!’

“‘Don’t lose your temper, Mr. Mulldoon, I’ll see what can be done for you; but, in the meantime, will you allow me to suggest that it would be less dangerous for the party, considering the situation of your residence, if, in the future, you would arrange to keep ducks!’”

II.

“We have not talked much about politics, eh? And a good thing, too. One only got really well into the atmosphere of political life at Washington; and then, after all, one heard more about literary copyright than anything else. I find I have made a note of a letter I read somewhere recently from an American painter, in support of taxing importations of fine art, more particularly pictures. It seems to me this is a grave mistake. I had no idea that protection, as it is called, existed so generally in America.”

“You have here,” I said, “the extreme of protective duties, as we in England have the other extreme of an unreciprocal free trade.”

“I can understand a reasonable protective tariff for a commercial industry; but art should surely go free. For a country that as yet possesses no great school of painting nor sculpture of her own, to obstruct, nay, almost prohibit, the entry of foreign work, must be to handicap her own rising genius. The examples of the famous masters of Greece and Rome, of France, and Holland, and England, are necessary for the American student, and free traffic in the works of great modern artists would have an elevating tendency on public taste.”

“As a rule American artists are favorable to the free importation of foreign pictures. They favor it from your own stand-point, the educational point of view,” I said.

“Moreover, I can quite imagine American artists who are permitted all the privileges of the art schools and galleries of Europe, and who sell their pictures in the Old World without let or hindrance, being annoyed at the inhospitality of their own country in this respect,” he replied; “Boughton, Bierstadt, Whistler, and other well-known American painters, for example.”

“And so they are, no doubt.”

“As a matter of fact public opinion in the United States, if it could be tested, would, I imagine, be on the side of admitting pictures, bric-À-brac, and books without duty; though the progress of what is called the modern free-trade movement is likely rather to retard than advance the interests of a free importation of fine-art productions.”

“In what way?” he asked. “The leading idea of a great reduction of tariffs is in the direction of abolition for protective purposes, a tariff for revenue only. In that case luxuries only would be heavily taxed, and the so-called free-traders, who support this view, would probably count in pictures and bric-À-brac with luxuries.”

“I should call them necessities,” Irving replied; “for the mind and the imagination require feeding just as much as the body. Besides, how are the Americans going to judge of the work of their own painters without comparison, and current daily comparison too, with foreign artists? The stage is as much of a luxury as paintings. Why let the English actor and his artistic baggage and belongings come in? It is a pleasant thing to remember that, under all circumstances, whatever the troubles between the two countries, America has always welcomed English players, and that has given her some of the best theatrical families she has,—the Booths, Jeffersons, Wallacks, and others. If the same enlightened policy in regard to painting, pottery, and bric-À-brac had been carried out in the matter of the stage, we should have seen just as fine an art appreciation applied to pictures as to plays and players. I am sure of it. If the musician and his works, if the opera, had been handicapped as art in other directions is, would America hold her high place in respect of choral societies, orchestral bands? And would she enjoy, as she does, the grand operas that are now produced in all her great cities? No. While, as you know, I claim no other credit for my method of presenting Shakespeare and the legitimate drama upon the stage than a performance of managerial duty, I am quite sure that, had European stage-art and artists been hampered for twenty years by restrictive taxes and other fiscal obstructions, the Lyceum Company and work would not have been welcomed as they have been, wherever we have pitched our tent. The same freedom for paintings would have made Watts, Millais, Tadema, Leighton, Pettie, Leader, Cole, Long, not to mention the works of earlier masters, as familiar here as at home, and would have crowded American homes with examples, original and copies, of the best schools of Europe. Would not that have helped American painters? Of course it would.”

III.

“Your work among New England cities,” I said, on his return visit to Brooklyn, “should impress upon you the grim quaintness of the story Mr. Emery Storrs told you concerning the annual festival called the ‘General Muster.’”

“Yes; a queer story, was it not? And, no doubt, characteristic of some of the more remote little towns.”

This is the story:—

The militia muster, once a year, is a celebration peculiar more particularly to New England. It is called the “General Muster.” Each little town comes in with its quota of militia; the bands as numerous as the troops. They make a holiday of it. One afternoon an old couple on the hill-side of the little town go out to catch a glimpse of the festivities. They are old and alone, managing to drag a mere subsistence out of the sour soil. Their children have gone West,—a son here, a daughter there. They are content to spend the winter of their days in the old, hard nest where they have reared their young; old folks, so old!—parchment faces, bony hands. They totter to the town, and rest on the way in the cemetery, or church-yard, and look at the graves as such grizzly veterans will. One of the militia fellows, going home,—he had got fuddled rather earlier than usual,—sees them. “Hello!” he shouts. “Go right back, right back, my friends; this is not the general resurrection, it is the general muster!”

“By the way,” said Irving, “did I tell you of the amusing incident that occurred at Philadelphia? It was on the last night of the first visit. We were playing ‘The Belle’s Stratagem.’ You know how difficult it is sometimes to keep the wings clear of people,—goodness knows who they are! Well, my way was continually blocked by a strange-looking crowd. I remonstrated with them once, and they moved; but they were back again. The cue for my entrance during the mad scene was at hand, as I said to these fellows, ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ ‘Baggage!’ exclaimed two of them, both in a breath. I did not know what the deuce baggage meant; whether the reply was a piece of information or a piece of impertinence; so I thought I would astonish them a little. Getting my cue on the instant, I stepped back a yard or two, and dashed in among them, yelling my entrance line, ‘Bring me a pickled elephant!’ They scattered right and left, and fell over each other; but before they had time to defend themselves from what they evidently thought was a furious attack I was on the stage.”

IV.

I have referred to the “theatre parties” of ladies and gentlemen who travelled many miles by railway to be present at the Irving performances. Several invitations to visit distant cities were also given, with guarantees of financial profit. Among these the most interesting and complimentary was a requisition from Kansas City, which is worth printing. I append it, with Irving’s reply:—

V.

“One thing I notice about the American cabmen and drivers generally,” said Irving,—“they do not chaff each other as the London men in the same positions do. They don’t appear to be cheerful; don’t discuss among themselves the news of the day; they treat each other as if they were strangers. English people, as a rule, complain of the cab-fares here; but they forget, on the other hand, to say that the cabs, or coupÉs, as they call them, are beautifully appointed vehicles; private broughams, in fact. The only inconvenience is, that unless you make a bargain with a driver beforehand he may charge you, it seems, what he likes. Against that, again, is this set-off: you can order your cab at your hotel, or your club, and have it charged in your bill, and in that case there is no extortion. Each leading hotel and club has telephonic communication with livery stables; and what a comfort that is! Then the messenger system,—one almost wonders how we do without it in London. If London can give New York ‘points’ in some things, New York can certainly return the compliment.”

Asked by a Boston journalist “how he considered he had been treated by his American critics,” Irving said, “I am exceedingly gratified by the intelligent and fair manner in which I have been treated by the press wherever I have gone. The Boston critics have been just and generous to me. Of course I read what the press has to say of my work, and, while I think it is not the proper province of an actor to criticise his critics, I will say generally that I have been pleased to note in how very few instances I have had to encounter on this side of the Atlantic anything in the nature of personal or petty feeling. I have been struck, too, by the power, vigor, and critical acumen which your leading papers, both here and elsewhere, have displayed in passing judgment upon my work and that of my company. I have a feeling that an actor should be content with what he gets, and that it is his duty to accept patiently any reproach, and to profit by it if he can. After all, criticism, if unjust, never harms a man; because any final appeal is always to the public, and, if any wrong is done, their ultimate judgment invariably corrects it.”

VI.

The “Southern Hotel,” at St. Louis, displayed prominently engraven upon a tablet, near the principal staircase, the dates when it had been burned down and rebuilt. The “Tremont,” at Chicago, recorded on its handsome new building the fact that it had been destroyed by fire, Oct. 27, 1839; July 9, 1849; and Oct. 9, 1871. “Having dwelt upon these dates with a little misgiving,” said a member of Mr. Irving’s company, “some of us felt almost alarmed when, on closing our bedroom doors, a card headed ‘Fire!’ printed in red ink, attracted our attention. I have asked permission to carry one of them away with me, thinking you would like to have it.” The notice is as follows:—

The fire service at Chicago is, no doubt, the finest and most complete organization in the world. Situated as the city is, on a vast plain, with prairie winds and lake winds that sweep the entire country for hundreds of miles without obstruction, the fire department has to consider, not only the question of extinguishing a conflagration, but protecting the property adjacent to a fire from ignition, in regard to which it has a series of wise precautionary measures. In former days Chicago, like many other American cities, was largely built of wood, and there are still outlying districts of timber houses. There are also enormous lumber-yards in Chicago, which are a source of danger during fires that rage when a high wind is blowing. Not long since Capt. Shaw gave an exhibition to a royal party in London, demonstrating how quickly the engines and fire-escapes can be signalled and despatched to a fire. So far as I remember the time was about fifteen minutes. In Chicago they take less than as many seconds to complete a similar operation. The system of fire-alarms in all American cities is superior to ours, and the arrangements for starting ensure far more expedition. We have a less number of fires in England, many conflagrations taking place in America through carelessness in connection with the furnaces that are used for heating the houses; then shingle roofs are not uncommon in America; and in England the party-walls that separate houses are, as a rule, thicker and higher. This was the explanation which the American consul gave me at Birmingham, England, recently, for the fact that during a whole year in Birmingham (with a population equal to Chicago) every fire that had occurred had been extinguished with a hand-engine and hose; it had not been necessary in a single case to use the steam-engines. In Chicago and other cities the electric signal announcing a fire at the same time releases the horses that are tethered close to the engines, alarms the reclining (sometimes sleeping) firemen in their bunks above, withdraws the bolts of trap-doors in the floor; and by the time the horses are in the shafts and harnessed the men drop from their bunks upon the engine. From a calm interior, occupied by an engine with its fire banked up, and one attendant officer, to a scene of bustle and excitement with an engine, fully equipped, dashing out into the street, is a transformation sufficiently theatrical in its effect to make the fortune of an Adelphi drama.

I once engaged to time the operation with a stopwatch, and before I was fairly ready to count the seconds the engine was in the street and away. These exhibitions of skill, speed, and mechanical contrivance can be seen every day at the quarters of the Fire Insurance Patrol. Chief Bulwinkle is one of the most obliging of officers, and many a famous English name has been inscribed in his visitor’s book.[59]

The method of marshalling the forces of the various brigades in case of a serious fire is interesting. Marshal Swenie explains it in a few words, in answer to a journalistic inquiry:—

“‘There is at each fire-station a running-card in connection with a particular fire-alarm box. All these brigades act on the first alarm. If the fire is in the crowded and costly part of the city not only do the nearest companies go to the fire, but the companies farther off move up. Suppose, for instance, that there is a fire at State and Madison streets, and there are four engine-houses in a straight line, extending in any direction to the city limits, and a mile apart. We will call the company nearest the fire No. 1, the next, No. 2, the next, No. 3, and the one farthest away, No. 4. Now, when No. 1 goes to the fire, No. 2 goes to the engine-house of No. 1 and takes possession; No. 3, in like manner, takes possession of No. 2’s house, and No. 4 of No. 3’s house. If there is a second alarm, No. 2 goes to the fire; No. 3 takes No. 1’s house, and No. 4 takes No. 3’s house. If there is a third alarm, No. 3 goes to the fire, and No. 4 takes No. 1’s house. Moreover, what is done in that one direction is done in every direction.”

“‘What is the object of this?’ asks the interviewing reporter from whom I borrow Marshal Swenie’s information.

“‘The object is to watch most closely the most valuable part of the city. A fire in the heart of the city destroys a hundred times as much property in a given time as a fire in the outskirts; therefore we arrange things so that if any part is to be left without protection it shall be the sparsely settled part.’

“‘Who directs the operation of extinguishing a fire?’

“‘The captain of the company that arrives first on the ground takes command of all the companies that arrive after his until a chief of a battalion arrives; and the chief takes command until the marshal or assistant marshal arrives.’

“‘What is the position of the commanding officer at a fire?’

“‘In front of the fire. By the front I mean to the leeward. A fire is always driven by the wind in one particular direction, and the marshal or commanding officer will always be found, therefore, where the fire is the hottest.’

“‘How do you communicate your orders in such a noise and excitement as there were, for instance, at the Bradner Smith & Co. fire?’

“‘Partly by messengers and partly by signals. The signals, however, are very few, and are made with a lantern. If the lantern is moved up and down it means that more pressure is needed on the stream; if it is moved horizontally it means that less is needed; and if it is swung around in a circle it means “take up,” or stop work altogether.’

“‘What does the whistling of the engine mean?’

“‘It means that they need more coal. They take with them fuel enough to last them half an hour, and by that time the coal-wagons are due.’

“‘Do you ever have any difficulty with your men on the score of cowardice?’

“‘Not any; but I have a world of difficulty in the other direction. The ambition, rivalry, and esprit du corps of the force are so great that I have the greatest difficulty in restraining the men from throwing away their lives in the most reckless manner. If I ever need to have a man go into a very dangerous position all I have to do is to send two there. As soon as they start each one insists on going a few feet farther than the other, and the result is that both of them become willing to walk into the fire. There is also very little shirking in the force. Once in a long time a man gets suspected of shirking, and the way that is cured is, he is given the pipe to hold at every fire, and four men are put behind him to shove him in.’

“‘What are the greatest obstacles to be overcome in extinguishing a fire?’

“‘Smoke and hot air. I have known the air in burning buildings to get so hot that two inhalations of it would kill a man. As to smoke, we use a kind of respirator; but it doesn’t do a great deal of good. Our main hope is in ventilating the premises and letting out the smoke. If it wasn’t for the smoke it would be very easy to put out fires.’

“‘Do you find that a fireman is short-lived?’

“‘I can’t say I do. So far as I can see they are a healthy, long-lived class, when they don’t get mangled and killed at their work.’”

VII.

“Do you remember the poetic speech, in verse and prose, that William Winter[60] made at the banquet in Lafayette place?” I asked.

“Yes, indeed,” Irving replied. “The two stanzas with which he introduced it were singularly musical, I thought.”

“Here they are. I wanted him to write out the heads of his speech for me; but he had only written down his verses, and here they are, as dainty as they are fraternal.

I.

“‘If we could win from Shakespeare’s river

The music of its murmuring flow,

With all the wild-bird notes that quiver

Where Avon’s scarlet meadows glow;

If we could twine with joy at meeting

Their prayers who lately grieved to part,

Ah, then, indeed, our song of greeting

Might find an echo in his heart!

II.

“‘But since we cannot in our singing

That music and those prayers entwine,

At least, we’ll set our blue-bells ringing,

And he shall hear our whispering pine;

And there shall breathe a welcome royal,

In accents tender, sweet, and kind,

From lips as fond and hearts as loyal

As any that he left behind.’”

Among the curious notices, serious and humorous, which were posted in the offices and dressing-rooms of the various theatres, the following satirical regulations are somewhat incongruous when considered with the handsome furniture which generally belongs to managerial rooms in America:—

VIII.

“Will you please tell me about the report, cabled from London to the American press, that you propose to stand for Parliament, in the Liberal interest, on your return to England?” asked a journalistic interviewer, at Boston.

“I can only say that the report is entirely unfounded. It arose, I imagine, from my election to the Reform Club. You know they do occasionally elect out-of-the-way fellows, such as I am, in the matter of politics. The welcome news reached me last night in my dressing-room at the theatre. To be elected in my absence adds to the pleasure of the thing. I have only that interest in politics which all honest men should have, but it exists only under my own roof. I do not think artists should mix up in politics. Art is my vocation, and I confine myself to it.”

“Then, I assume, you have never cherished political aspirations.”

“Oh, no, never! In fact I should be totally unfit for Parliament. I am not eloquent, and should be unfit in other ways. We do not look upon politics in England as you do here. Here political life is an avenue to office and to emoluments, in a broader and deeper sense than is possible in England, and many choose the law as a profession with a view to politics. Do they not? It is not so with us. A seat in the House of Commons, as a rule, involves great expense, as well as a claim upon a man’s time; and he may sit there all his life, if he is returned often enough, and spend every year a large income, socially in London, and locally on charities, hospitals, reading-rooms, churches and chapels, among his constituents. We do not pay our representatives salaries; and I believe, particularly in the country, the constituencies watch with the greatest jealousy every vote a member records. The House of Commons is not a bed of roses.”

I have said, in a previous chapter, that the trouble in respect to the new form of journalism in some of the cities of the United States is, that the reader is left too much in doubt as to the truth of the daily chronicles. The Chicago reporter, who held up the “interviews” of other journals as more or less “bogus,” would himself have found it difficult in this respect to winnow the chaff from the wheat. At St. Louis a reporter professed to have taken an engagement as a “super” in the Irving Company. He wrote a description of “behind the scenes” in that capacity, but “gave himself away,” by making all the company, from the leading actor down to the call-boy, drop their h’s. The American reporter’s leading idea when burlesquing the English is to take every h out of a Britisher’s conversation, and even to make the Queen herself drop the aspirate or misuse it; for instance, here is a summary of the royal speech on the opening of Parliament, which appeared in a Philadelphia journal: “We’re pretty well, I thank you, and we ‘opes to remain so, we does.” If in our stage and journalistic satire we make Jonathan “guess,” “calkalate,” and “lick all creation, you bet,” he “gets even” with “yahs, deah boy,” and “‘ow bar’ you,” and “‘pon my ‘onor, don’t cher know?” But, referring back to the many imaginary interviews and fictitious sketches of Irving and his life behind the scenes, here is an extract from an account of “Irving’s day,” which appeared in one of the light-headed dailies, that is, in some respects, truer than I dare say any of its readers believed it to be. The introduction of “the secretaries” is worthy of “Punch,” and in its earnestness funnier than some of the great humorist’s sketches of the Irving tour in America. Here are the leading points of the article:—

When Irving was at Philadelphia he had a young English friend visiting him. The waiter (who was evidently in the confidence of the local reporter, or might have been the reporter himself masquerading as a waiter) pressed him in as a secretary. Abbey’s manager, Mr. Palser, Mr. Stoker, Mr. Loveday, and another friend, a resident of Philadelphia, were all promoted to the secretarial office. There is a sublime touch of unconscious satire in this staff of secretaries, engaged upon the work of answering Irving’s letters, which will be particularly appreciated in London, where that one special sin of his—neglecting to answer letters—is even commented upon in learned reviews. The after-dinner “study and meditations” is “Jeames’s” view of the siesta, which is a needful incident of every actor’s day. The data of the sketch being fairly correct, the bona fides of it, from the reporter’s point of view, make it interesting as well as characteristic of the “personal” character of some of the clever news journals of the day.

IX.

One day, during “this interval after dinner,” which is “passed in study and meditation,” Irving said, “Have you followed out all the story of the Bisbee murderers?”

“Yes,” I said. “It is one of those strange cases of lawlessness, that I have taken out of the newspapers for my scrap-book. Charles Reade[61] would have been interested in it. Have you ever seen his scrap-books?”

“No,” said Irving; “are they very remarkable?”

“Yes, and in my slovenly attempts to save newspaper cuttings I often think of him. I once spent a whole day with him, looking over his journalistic extracts, and he was lamenting all the time the trouble involved in their arrangement and indexing. He subscribed to many odd out-of-the-way newspapers for his collections. If he had ever visited America he would have been tempted to make a very formidable addition to his list.

“Do you know the beginning of the Bisbee business? I have only seen the account of the hunting down of one of the murderers, which has interested me tremendously. Have you seen any accounts of the capture?”

“No.”

“Well, then, curiously enough I have received a San Francisco ‘Chronicle,’ with the entire story of it, and I believe it is worth putting into the book. Can you tell me the nature of this crime?”

“Yes. One day several strangers arrived suddenly in the little town of Bisbee, on the outskirts of Western civilization. They went into the principal store, shot down the owner of it, fired at anybody they saw on the street, killed a woman who was passing the store, and, having generally, as it were, bombarded the little town, left as mysteriously as they came. That is briefly the story, as it was repeated to me a week ago by Dr. Gilman, of Chicago, who has recently returned from the scene of the tragedy, and other mining camps and towns, about which he entertained me with a dozen almost equally startling stories.”

“Well,” said Irving, “the hunt after these Bisbee ruffians is about as dramatic an episode of police work as I ever came across. A reward being offered for the chief of the gang who raided Bisbee, it was soon discovered that ‘Big Dan,’ a notorious ruffian, was the criminal. The entire business was after his most approved method, and it was finally proved, beyond doubt, that this was the latest of ‘Big Dan Dowd’s’ crimes. On the 6th of January, Deputy Sheriff Daniels brought him in custody into Tombstone, and this is the story of the capture:—

“‘On December 23, Daniels learned in Bisbee, from some Mexicans just in from Sonora, that two men, answering the description of ‘Big Dan’ and Billy Delaney, were in Bavispe, Sonora. This place will be remembered as the point from which Crook started on his trip into the defiles of the Sierra Madre, and lies on the western slope of that range. Satisfying himself that the information furnished by the Mexicans was correct, Daniels communicated with the sheriff’s office, and, after making all necessary arrangements, started, on the morning of December 26, for that place. Accompanying the officer was a Mexican named Lucero, on whom Daniels knew he could rely as a guide and a fighter. On the morning of the 30th, after a ride of about two hundred miles, Daniels and his two companions (he having picked up another Mexican at Frontera) reached Bavispe. Here it was learned that Delaney and Dowd had separated five days previously, Dowd remaining in Bavispe, which point he had left that morning, about an hour prior to the arrival of Daniels and his posse. Additional inquiries elicited the information that Dowd had struck across the Sierra Madre for Janos, in the State of Chihuahua, distant about seventy-five miles. After taking a short rest, and perfecting plans for the capture of Delaney, the officer started in pursuit of the other bandit.

“The route of travel led through the defiles of the Sierra Madre, by rocks and precipitous trails, and it was not until the morning of January 1 that Daniels reached Janos, where he learned, as at Bavispe, that the bird had flown, having left Janos a few hours ahead of him for Coralitos, distant about twenty-seven miles. Procuring fresh horses, the posse started at once for Coralitos, which place was reached about eight o’clock that evening. The town is in the centre of a mining country, and is composed principally of Mexicans, there being but half-a-dozen Americans in the place. The whole neighborhood, as described by Daniels, seems to belong to the Coralitos Mining Company, of which Ad Menzenberger is superintendent. Daniels went at once to him, and communicating the object of his visit, learned that ‘Big Dan’ had arrived a short time previously, and was then in what was known as the house of the Americans. The superintendent, having learned the character of Dowd, was only too willing to assist in his capture, and, under the cover of darkness, he and Daniels proceeded to the house. Prior to reaching it, it was agreed that the superintendent should enter in advance of Daniels, in order to prevent any interference by the Americans who were in his employ, in the capture of Dowd.

“‘As agreed the superintendent entered the room first, with Daniels at his heels. Dowd was sitting on a table facing the fire, and the rest of the party were scattered about the room. On the table was standing, also, a bottle of whiskey, which had not been uncorked. Everything indicated that Dowd had no idea of the presence of an officer, and was preparing for a jolly night with his companions. He did not even look around when the men entered the room, and his first knowledge that he was in the clutches of the law was when Menzenberger, who had reached his side, caught hold of his arms, and throwing them above his head, said, ‘Throw up your hands.’ Daniels, at the same time, with a cocked pistol in each hand, made the demand to surrender. A word from the superintendent to the Americans present showed Dowd, who was unarmed at the time, that he was powerless to escape, and he quietly submitted to being manacled. Daniels remained until the following morning, when he was furnished with an ambulance and escort by the superintendent, and driven to San JosÉ station, on the line of the Mexican Central Railroad, one hundred and ten miles distant, and about ninety miles south of El Paso del Norte. Here he telegraphed to Sheriff Ward of the capture, and, putting his prisoner on board the train, started for home. Upon nearing Paso del Norte, he feared that Dowd might raise a question of extradition, and put him to much trouble; so he made arrangements with the railroad officials, and, together with his prisoner, was locked in the express car until reaching the American line.’”

Irving recited most of the “Chronicle’s “narrative. The close, terse particulars of its details leave sufficient color of surroundings to the imagination of the reader.

X.

“Tombstone,” he said presently, “is a curious name for a town.”

“Some friends of mine,” I said, “have business interests there. It got its name in this way: a party of young pioneers decided to go there on a prospecting expedition. They were ridiculed, and told by another party, who had refused to join them, that all they would find would be a tomb. The adventurers, however, discovered mineral treasures, of enormous extent, started a town, and, as a derisive answer to their prophetic friend, called it Tombstone. This is the story of only a few years. Tombstone is now a prosperous community, and has a daily paper. What do you think its title is?”

“I cannot guess.”

“Eugene Field, a journalist whose name is well-known throughout the West, gave me a copy of it only yesterday.”

I went to my room and brought down a well-printed four-page paper, entitled “The Tombstone Epitaph.”

“And not a funny paper at all,” said Irving, examining it; “a regular business-like paper, newsy and prosaic, except for the short literary story and the poem that begin its pages.”

“Mr. Field gave me some remarkable newspaper trophies of these mining towns, that may be said to grow up outside the pale of civilization, to be eventually incorporated into the world of law and order. Here, for instance, is a placard issued by ‘The Bazoo,’ a newspaper published at the little town of Sedalia:—

BAZOO NEWS TRAIN!
—to—
NEVADA, MO.,
Friday, December 28, 1883.

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BILL FOX’S PUBLIC EXECUTION
For the murder of Tom Howard, at Nevada, Mo., May 20,1883.

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The “Sedalia Bazoo” has chartered a special train, which will run to Nevada from Joplin on that day. Leaving Jopling at 8.10 o’clock A.M., and returning in thirty minutes after the death-scene at the gallows.

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Time-table.				Rate of Fare for Round Trip.
Leave	Joplin,	8.10	A.M.	$2.00
”	Webb City,	8.25	”	1.75
”	Edwin,	8.43	”	1.50
”	Carthage,	8.53	”	1.45
”	Carey,	9.05	”	1.25
”	Jasper,	9.15	”	1.10
”	Carleton,	9.27	”	.95
”	Lamar,	9.40	”	.75
”	Irwin,	9.57	”	.60
”	Sheldon,	10.07	”	.50
”	Milo,	10.20	”	.25
Arrive	Nevada,	10.35

?Tickets for Sale at the Depot.?

Returning, the train will leave Nevada thirty minutes after the execution, giving plenty of time for all to get to the train. Tickets sold for this train will not be good on any other but the “Bazoo” News Train, this day only.

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THE BAZOO!
Is a Daily and Weekly newspaper published at
SEDALIA, MO.,
For the People now on Earth.

---

Terms.
Daily,	perAnnum	$10.00
Sunday,	”	2.50
Weekly,	”	1.00

?Subscriptions will be received on the Train by a Solicitor.?

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The “Sedalia Morning Bazoo” of Dec. 29 will contain a picture of FOX, who is to be executed, with a full history of his crime, his trial, and the last words of the dying man on the gallows.

Secure a copy of the news agent on the train, or of your news-dealer, for Five Cents.

“And here is the free pass (printed on a mourning card) which accompanied the announcement that was sent to Mr. Field in his journalistic capacity:—

Good for Special News Train only.

THE BAZOO NEWS TRAIN, On the occasion of the Public Execution of Bill Fox. Pass Miss Eugenia Field, Acc’t of Boss Bog, To Nevada and Return, Dec. 28, 1883. J. West Goodwin.

“Bill Fox, I understood, was a noted criminal, and everybody was glad to have him hanged out of the way.”

XI.

“It is a lesson in the evolution of towns, these incidents of the pushing out of the frontiers of a great country,” said Irving. “I dare say Denver began its career as a mining-camp.”

“It did; and only a few years ago.”

“And now they tell me it is a beautiful and well-ordered city, with the finest opera-house in all America.”

“That is so; and one day you ought to play there.”

“I hope I may; I would like it very much. By the way, your bill about ‘The Bazoo’ excursion reminds me of two curious placards which the manager of Haverly’s gave me. They tell the story of the fate of a new play that was once produced at his theatre. It was called ‘Hix’s Fix,’ and was a terrible failure. The theatre had been engaged for a short season for ‘Hix’s Fix,’ and the proprietors of it were at their wits’ ends to know what to do. They were not prepared to play any other piece; so they hit upon the expedient of ‘pushing the failure.’ They printed half a million handbills, and circulated them diligently. This is one of them; it reads as follows:—

HAVERLY’S THEATRE.

---

In obedience to the Unanimous Opinion of the Daily Press
Mestayer & Barton
Seriously think of Changing the name of their Play,
HIX’S FIX, to ROT.
In sober truth, this is about the right thing
?BUT?
It is the funniest rot you have ever seen, and stands preeminent
and alone the
Worst Play of the Age.

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OPINIONS OP THE PRESS:

Hix’s Fix is bad enough, but think of the poor audience.—News.

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All that is not idiotic is vile.—Tribune.

---

The

piece is sheer nonsense, to speak mildly.—Times.

---

The most painful dramatic infliction we have suffered this season.—Evening News.

---

EVERYBODY’S JUDGMENT WANTED.

---

TURN OUT and JOIN the MOURNERS.

---

Every Night this Week and Wednesday and Saturday MatinÉes.

---

“Under the influence of this extraordinary announcement, the business improved, stimulated by which cheering result the managers issued a new proclamation, to this effect:—

HAVERLY’S THEATRE.

---

Every Night this Week and usual MatinÉes.
HIX’S FIX
Is unquestionably the worst Play ever produced.

---

It is so much worse that no one should miss it!

---

THIS IS CONFIDENTIAL (?)

---

To illustrate how good people will sometimes go wrong, read
the list of talent engaged in playing this vile trash.

---

William A. Mestayer,
The heaviest of heavy Tragedians.
Rob’t E. Graham,
Unequalled in Character Impersonations.
Harry Bloodgood, Fred. Turner, Chas. A. Stedman,
H. A. Cripps.
Miss Kate Foley,
As bright as a sunbeam,
Sophie Hummell, Helen Lowel, Lisle Riddell, with
James Barton, as Manager.
Here you have the novelty of a very Good Company in an
unpardonably Bad Play.
AND THEY KNOW IT!

---

You must admire their Candor, if you will condemn the Play.

---

“Many curious people were drawn to the theatre in this way; but the attraction of failure only lasted a few nights. The invitation to turn out and join the mourners strikes one as funny. ‘It helped them to pay expenses,’ said the manager; ‘but it is the most novel effort to “turn diseases to commodities,” as Falstaff says, that ever came under my notice.’”

XII.

“And now,” continued Irving, “to go back to your opening, where we rather discount Raymond’s stories of the wild life of Texas. Have you seen the ‘Herald’s’ latest sensation?”

“No.”

“Not the Texan tragedy?”

“No.”

“Here it is, then; listen to the heads of it: ‘Two Crime-stained Ruffians die with their Boots on—Pistol Shots in a Theatre—Killed in Self-defence by Men whose Lives they sought—The Heroes of many Murders!’”

He handed me the paper, saying, “Read that! And yet we chaffed poor Raymond!”

I read a “special telegram” to the “Herald” (and verified the report at a later day by the records of other journals, local, and of the “Empire city”), reporting that on the 11th of March, between ten and twelve at night, San Antonio, Texas, was “thrown into a state of wild excitement, by the report that Ben Thompson and King Fisher had been shot and killed at the Vaudeville Theatre. An immense crowd thronged around the doors of the theatre, but were denied admission by the officers who had taken possession of the building.

“It seems that Ben Thompson, who is noted throughout Texas as one of the most reckless and desperate characters in the State, and King Fisher, who also had the reputation of a desperado, arrived at San Antonio together, from Austin, by the International train. After enjoying the performance at Turner Hall for a time, they left before the curtain fell, and went to the Vaudeville Theatre, in company with another person. As soon as it became known that Thompson was in the city the police were on the alert, expecting trouble. Fisher and Thompson entered the Vaudeville, and, after taking a drink at the bar, went upstairs and took seats. They engaged in a brief conversation with Simms, one of the proprietors, and the whole party took drinks and cigars together. Thompson and Fisher then rose, and, in company with Simms and Coy, a special policeman at the theatre, started downstairs.

“The party was joined by Joe Foster, another of the Vaudeville proprietors, and an excited and heated conversation followed, during which Thompson called Foster a liar, a thief, and other vile names. Firing then commenced, and some ten or twelve shots were heard in rapid succession. Police Captain Shardein and another officer rushed upstairs, to find Ben Thompson and King Fisher weltering in their blood in the corner of a room near the door leading downstairs. Joe Foster was badly wounded in the leg, and Officer Coy slightly grazed on the shin.

“A scene of the wildest confusion ensued as soon as the shooting commenced. All who were in the theatre knew of the presence of Thompson and Fisher, and were well acquainted with their desperate character. When the first shot was fired the whole crowd seemed to be panic-stricken. The dress circle was quickly cleared, the occupants jumping into the parquet below and through the side-windows into the street. No one seems to know who fired the first shot, or how many were engaged in the shooting. Before the theatre was fairly cleared of its occupants fifteen hundred persons on the outside were clamoring at the closed doors for admittance, which was resolutely denied by the police, who had taken possession of the building. Subsequently the dead bodies of Thompson and Fisher were removed to the City Jail, where they were washed and laid out.

“Bill Thompson, the brother of Ben, was at the White Elephant at the time of the shooting, waiting for Ben to return from Turner Hall. He rushed out as soon as he saw that there was some trouble; but, as he was unarmed, he was stopped at the entrance to the Vaudeville by Captain Shardien, and kept outside the building.

“An immense crowd followed the remains of the two desperadoes when they were carried to the jail, and this morning the plaza around the building was thronged.

“From the statements of those connected with the theatre the killing was unavoidable, as it seemed to be understood when Thompson entered the house that his purpose was to raise a disturbance; but whether King Fisher shared in this design is not known.

“A coroner’s jury was summoned at once. They viewed the bodies, and the inquest was held the next morning. After hearing the testimony of eye-witnesses and others a verdict was returned to the effect that Ben Thompson and J. King Fisher came to their deaths by means of pistol-bullets fired from weapons in the hands of W. Simms, Joseph C. Foster, and Jacob Coy; and, further, that the killing was justifiable, being done in self-defence. Coy, the special policeman on duty at the theatre, testified that Thompson drew his weapon first; but it was seized by witness, who held it in his grasp during the affray. Thompson, however, fired four shots, one of which took effect in Foster’s leg.

“Foster’s leg has been amputated, and there are no hopes of his recovery.”

The newspaper man gives “Thompson’s antecedents” and “Fisher’s record,” as follows:—

The reporter adds: “The city is now quiet, though the death of two such notorious desperadoes is still a topic of conversation.”

“Thompson was an Englishman, you see,” remarked Irving, “which verifies to some extent what I have often been told, that England has to answer for a full share of the ruffianly element of the States. The mining regions of California at one time were crowded with English adventurers. What a vast country it is that encircles in its territories every climate,—tropical heat and arctic cold! To-day, while we are ice-bound, a journey of two or three days would take us to Florida and orange-groves, and a day’s travel from the heart of a highly civilized city, of refined cultivation and well-ordered society, would carry us into a region where men live in primitive state, so far as the law is concerned, and yet are the pioneers of a great empire. What a story, the history of America, when somebody tells it from its picturesque and romantic side!”

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