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GOOD INTENTIONS

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their supper at the Garrick Club, that there were more spiritual ways of beginning a new year than in draining the wassail-bowl. Accordingly, they got into their wrap-rascals-Kemble into his well-known brown watchman's cape with the astrachan collar, and Cecil into his Baron Stein pardessus with the beaver facings-and they started to walk to a fourwheeler' which should take them to one of the fashionable churches where midnight services were held. But cabs were scarce, and they toddled all the way up Regent Street without seeing one that would take them. There was a hansom or two, but Arthur Cecil would sooner have mounted an Australian buckjumper than sit in a two-wheeled cab. It wanted but ten minutes of midnight. 'There's a church, Arthur,' exclaimed Kemble, pointing to the sacred edifice in Langham Place with the marling-spike steeple. 'It's nearly twelve o'clock; we'd better go in there.' 'H'm! But d'you know if there's a service goin' on there, Beetle ?' asked Cecil doubtfully. I'm certain there is,' said Kemble; I saw two ladies go in just now. There's another one,' he added as a devout-looking lady, apparently foreign, entered the building. 'All right, then,' said Arthur; and the two friends crossed the road and went in. The church was dimly lighted, but they found their way into an unoccupied pew near the sanctuary. 'Isn't it curious—the

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small percentage of men?' whispered Kemble. 'I don't believe I noticed one. How different from the Church of Rome!' However, they knelt side by side, and were soon plunged in their devotions, lamenting lost opportunities in the year that was dying and making golden resolutions for the year that was about to be born, when Kemble, who was nearest the aisle, was touched on the shoulder. 'Do you want to speak to me?' whispered a tall, grave-looking clergyman attired in a long cassock. 'Thank you very much,' replied Kemble in an undertone, but I-er-I don't know that I doparticularly.' Then, perhaps,' continued the clergyman, 'you and your friend would like to go before the service begins.' 'On the contrary,' said Kemble, 'we came expressly that we might have the benefit of the service.' 'The only thing is,' said the parson, evidently somewhat embarrassed, 'this is a special service for-er-er-for-er-for fallen women.' Kemble and Cecil leapt to their feet, seized their hats, and fled. I cannot but think they were mistaken when they told me they believed that as they hurried down the aisle, they heard a chastened titter from one or two of the poor penitents.

In his later days Arthur Cecil was wont to bestride the elaborate modern substitute for the old 'bumping-chair' of our ancestors-one of those machines, covered with a saddle, which go through

'LA HAUTE ÉCOLE'

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every kind of pace in obedience to a lever, and walk, trot, canter, or gallop without gaining ground. I have often gone into his bedroom in the Haymarket at about half-past eleven in the morning, and found him in his night-gown and a pair of pince-nez, with a resolute expression on his face, sitting well back in his pigskin seat, going through all the sensations of Mornington Cannon on Flying Fox. It is recorded that Arthur Cecil was once beguiled into riding a real pony. He was staying with some friends near Windsor, and one morning his host exclaimed: 'Look here, Arthur, you must come for a ride. We'll put you on old Sarah, the Shetland that all the children used to ride. She's really quieter than an ordinary arm-chair.' So Arthur allowed himself to be persuaded, and mounted the old pony, who walked very nimbly for her age, by the side of the host's smart thorough-bred, through the streets of Windsor into the Old Park. Now then, Arthur, what d'you say to a canter now we've got on to the turf?' asked his friend. Presently— I think it might be-rather pleasant,' replied Arthur, with assumed jauntiness, when I've got a little more-used to her-er-paces. Just then an academy of young ladies hove in sight, about ten of them, mounted on palfreys of various sorts and sizes, in charge of a riding-master. Old Sarah must have recognised, or thought she recognised, a

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friend-some contemporary of Blink Bonny or Wild Dayrell-for she suddenly pricked up her ears, gave a snort through her grizzled nostrils, and started off at an eight-mile-an-hour canter in the direction of the manège. Cecil followed his first instinct, and seized the pommel of his saddle firmly with both hands. Sarah soon got alongside of the class of girls, who looked with merry astonishment on the stout, amiable, middle-aged gentleman with the curly silver hair who appeared so ill at ease on his tiny charger. Cecil felt it was his duty to make some remark which should at once proclaim that he wished to commit no breach of good manners, and also disguise the fact that he was no longer master of his steed. He had heard of the bonhomie which, in the hunting-field, levels all formal social barriers. So he hardened his heart, increased his left-hand grip on the saddle-bow, and got the right hand free. With this he contrived to raise his hat, and, with a blood-curdling attempt at a smile, he contrived to ejaculate: 'Would you-young ladies-object to my pony-joining your party?'

CHAPTER XI

Maurice Barrymore-A conjugal reproof-Justice in the Far West-A bigamy trial in Pennsylvania-'The Burglar and the Judge'-Stage burglars and real ones-Criminal 'lines of business'-Card-sharping-An old American 'sport'The road to wealth-Millionaires at play-Mr. Lowenfeld. ONE of the pleasantest companions I ever met in a theatre was Maurice Barrymore—now, I am afraid, no longer with us. He was a fine-looking fellow of a convivial disposition, and gifted with a very ready wit and an elegant choice of words. He was much sought after, and not averse to be found, and his popularity in all sorts of society robbed his first wife, a very bright American actress, of a good deal of his company. She was not only pretty and brilliant, but a very devout Catholic; and, belonging to a practical race, she could on occasion select and hurl forth without hesitation the word best adapted to convey her meaning in compact form. It is related that one morning in New York she was leaving the house at about seven o'clock, in order to hear her daily Mass, when she met Maurice, in dishevelled

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