Broadbrim's New York Letter.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 867, 12 October 1888, Page 10

Broadbrim's New York Letter.

‘ Do you believe in luck ? ’ ‘Of course not. None but superstitious people believe in luok. This an enlightened age we live in. In the olden time, when people were igno. rant and foolish, it Was all very well to believe iu luck; but we’ve got past that now, and don’t you forget it 1 ’ This was the reply of a v«ry Bmnrt man to me last week when I asked the quoßtion indicated above. I was standing on the corner of Twenty-third street and Sixth avenue, in front of Levi M. Bates’ dry-goods store, while thousands of dollars worth of costly silks, laces, cloths, &c., were going under the auctioneer’s hammer. Ou the opposite oorner the Masonic Hall stands, a monument to the energy of the ‘ Brethren of the Mystic Tie.’ Fifty yards from the northwest corner is Roster & Bial’s beer garden, were hundreds gather nightly to Bee O’Connor travesty Shakespeare. But it is with the first corner named that I have to do with now, whoa I asked if you believed in luck. A hundred years ago, when the old post-road led out to the village of Blooming Dale, right on this piece of land was a famous old maurion occupied by a family by the name of Von der Hyde. This house was surrounded by well laid out grounds, and back of it was a pleasant orchard reaching far beyond the limits of the present Madison Square. It was in the year 1762, September 12, that a mighty crowd of excited burghers might be seen surrounding the old manor house, for early that morning Emeritus Von der Hyde and his wife were found murdered in their bed, and the house had been robbed of silver, ware and valuables, with which the robbers had escaped. The murder caused a profound sensation, and although the Von der Hyde property was one of the most desirable on the Island, it was years before anyone oould be found to occupy it. It was known far and near as the haunted house. Late travellers riding in the wee hours to and from Bloom, ing Dale, asserted that they beard unseemly noises ; lights flashed out from the windows of the room where the murder had been committed, and more than one was ready to swear that they had seen old Emeritus Von der Hyde and his wife looking out of the windows—their garments crimsoned with blood as they were on the night of the mur. der. Years rolled on and the old mansion was torn down, for bad luck seemed to pursue it, no matter what business was tried there. Failure after failure followed it. About seventeen years ago it was purchased by Mr Edwin Booth, who invested in it all the earnings of his life, and also induced his father-in-law, James McVickar of Chicago, to back him in the venture, and the result was Booth’s Theatre, one of the most magnificent temples of the drama ever erected in New York. Aided by the genius and experience of Booth, Shakespeare was produced here as it had never before been seen iu New York. The best actors, the best scenery, the most gorgeous costumes, —everything that art could lend or genius conceive, conspired for success, but all in vain. The ghost of Emeritus Von der Hyde and his wife walked the stage and sat in the flie3 and flitted among the scenes after the audience had departed : and one day Edwin Booth marched out of the theatre a ruined man ; his fortune gone, his father-in-law seriously crippled, and himself a bankrupt, loaded with liabilities to the tune of a hundred thousand dollars. Then Dion Boucicault took it, and he went to the wall in a few weeks. Stetson of Boston, one of the most successful managers in the United States, tried it and came to grief after sinking a respectable fortune. He withdrew, and no manager had the oourage to try it after him. Tho building was then altered into stores. The corner was thought to be one of the very best in New York. It was opened by a couple of experienced and enterprising men as a dry goods store. All around them and on every side were men who had built up oolcssal fortunes in the dry goods business ; but bad luck followed them from the first, and when on the verge of bankruptcy they found a purchaser in Levi M. Bates, formerly of the great Broadway firm of Reed, Bates & Cooloy, a firm whioh ranked with Horace B. Claflin and A. T. Stewart in their palmiest days. The firm dissolved a couple of years ago, and Mr Bates retired ©n a million. His credit was unimpeachable and his experience unquestioned. Idleness did not agree with him, so ho bought out the firm on tho fatal corner of Sixth avenue aud Twenty-third street. The same dark cloud that haunted all the rest followed him. With the most splendid stock of goods in the city, and the most accomplished salesmen and women, he could not sell enough to pay his expenses. Two weeks ago the sheriff stepped in and closed him up, and this week everything went under the auctioneer’s hammer. Do you believe in ghosts ? No sir. Are you superstitious? Not a bit of it. Woa 1 d you walk under a ladder ? Not if I could get around it. Believe in spirits ? That question savours of Prohibition, sir, and I decline to answer. _ The great revival is ended, and Brother Harrison has gone to Sing Sing, where we board about two thousand gentlemen at the expense of the State. Brother Harrison, at the closing meeting on Thursday, said that the day before the proprietor of a great daily newspaper had sent for him and asked him to pray for him. Since then everybody has been trying to find out who the repentant sinner was. At first I thought it was Pulitzer of ‘The World,’ but finally came to the conclusion that it could not be him, as he is generally recognised as being outside ■the pale of saving grace. An earthquake wonldn’t touch Dana of ‘ The Sun.’ Then I thought of Bennett of ‘ The Herald, as he is a fitting subject for earnest and it occurred to me that he might have sent a dispatch by the Mackey-Bennefct cable to the young evangelist for prayer. On reflection I came to the conclusion that nothing but a miracle could save him. It could not bo Brother Shepard of ‘ The Mail and Express,’ as he does not need prayers, being already among the elect. Could it be Whitelaw Reid of ‘The Tribune?’ Pshaw, no. The President of the profane Lotus Club would never think of such a thing. After much deliberation I settled down on Henry Watteraon. Mr Harrison did not say it was a New York Daily—but a great daily newspaper. Now if any man needs prayer for

his salvation among the editorial fraternity, with a good fighting chance of being saved if he will only repent Of his sins, that man is Henry Wattersori of ‘ The Loilisville CourierJournal.’ He would not make a bad evangelist himself; and when he gets over his summer outing, if it was known in Kentucky that Harrison prayed for him, e»en the Stareyed Goddess of Reform would have to take a back seat. I am sorry to say that although two thousand five hundred are reported as the sum of the spiritual harvest, not one single newspaper reporter has been gathered in.' Early last week it was given out that a newspapor reporter had risen and asked for prayer. When they told me he belonged to * The New York World,’ that settled it. Yet who knows what may happen when Brother Harrison returns in the fall : ‘While the lamp holds opt to burn, . The vilest sinner may return.’ ‘Man’s inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn.’ That’s all very fine, but you don t hear anything about woman’s inhumanity to woman. Oh, no. You shove it all on one man. Yet in Brooklyn, right across tke river, lives Mrs Greenslade, a very worthy little Englishwoman, who follows the vocation of a barber. Mrs Greenslade made the mistake that lots of us have made—she picked out the wrong fellow fora life partner, and did not find out her mistake till the kuot was tied so fast you could not untie it with your teeth. Still Mrs Greenslade made the best of her bad bargain, and tried to earn an honest living. She tried keeping a hoarding-house, but the boarders eat her hash and failed to pay her. She turned dressmaker, but she ruined tho stuff and her dresses did not fit. At last, in despair she started a barber shop, and she practised on Greenslade till she got her hand in, aud then she took a turn at the general publio. Her first customer was a gay old boy, who had married a widow with ducats, about ten yesrs older than himself. Mrs Greenslade was rubbing in the lather under his chin and was holding him tenderly by tho nose when Mrs Curly walked into the shop. To say that Curly got out of the ohair in a hurry, faintly describes what followed. Mrs Curly tipped the scales at 247 ; Mrs Greenslade turned the steelyards at 104 J ; but Boience made up the difference in Weighty and a razor turned the tide of battle. After that the women of the neighbourhood turned against Mrs Greenslade, and eventually they drove her out. Her life-partner is a crank who imagines himself a prophet, and he now devotes his time to proving that Judas was the most worthy of the Apostles. When Belva Lockwood came to Brooklyn to open her fight for the Presidency, Greenslade got himself up in a base ball suit fall of stripes, with a big red heart on his breast, and sat right in front of the fair speaker, applauding every word. From there he went to the Salvation Army, and he gave them such a dose that he landed in the police station. Meanwhile the women have banded against poor little Mrs Greenslade. The storm of Saturday night struck us very much like a Western cyclone. Tho display of celestial fireworks was something marvellous. For three hours the sky was a sheet of flame, and its concentrated fury burst on the works of the United States Electrical Company, destroying a portion of its plant and burying the city in darkness from the City Hall to Fourteenth Street. Forty of the workmen were knocked down and fled from the burning building. The Btorm raged with groat fury for several hours, and left the city as clean as a new pin ; for which, lightning aud all, Providence bo thanked.

Yours truly,' Broadbrim.