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Updated: June 17, 2025
Chamberlin's boundlessly hospitable table was an equally appealing joy. How they regarded me at that time I cannot surely define perhaps they tolerated me out of love for the West. But I here acknowledge my obligation to "The Listener."
If those old walls, which by the way are still standing, could speak, what tales they might tell, what testimonies refute, what new lights throw into the vacant corners and dark places of history! Coming away from Chamberlin's with Mr. Blaine for an after-dinner stroll during the winter of 1883-4, referring to the approaching National Republican Convention, he said: "I do not want the nomination.
Whatever heart-burnings he may have had because certain people refused to come to his balls, he was in Newport to remain. He would sit under the battlements until the crack of doom; or rather and more appropriate in Mr. Chamberlin's case walk around them and around, blowing trumpets until they capitulated. Honora magically found herself within them, and without a siege.
"Welcker's," erst a fashionable resort, and long the best eating-place in town, had been ruined by a scandal, and "Chamberlin's" succeeded it, having the field to itself, though, mindful of the "scandal" which had made its opportunity, ladies were barred.
Chamberlin's shrill voice berating a gardener. "Howard," she asked presently, "why do you come to Newport at all?" "Why do I come to Newport?" he repeated. "I don't understand you." "Why do you come up here every week?" "Well," he said, "it isn't a bad trip on the boat, and I get a change from New York; and see men I shouldn't probably see otherwise." He paused and looked at her again, doubtfully.
One night at Chamberlin's, in Washington, George Corkhill, the district attorney who was prosecuting the murderer of Garfield, said to me: "You will never fully understand this case until you have sat by me through one day's proceedings in court." Next day I did this. Never have I passed five hours in a theater so filled with thrills.
This was John Chamberlin. During two decades "Chamberlin's," half clubhouse and half chophouse, was all a rendezvous. "John" had been a gambler; first an underling and then a partner of the famous Morrissy-McGrath racing combination at Saratoga and Long Branch. There was a time when he was literally rolling in wealth. Then he went broke dead broke.
Chamberlin's greenhouse could not compare with the colour of her cheeks; her hair was like the dusk; her eyes like the blue pools among the rocks, and touched now by the sun; her neck and arms of the whiteness of sea-foam. It was meet that she should be thus for him and for the love he brought her. She turned suddenly to the maid. "Do you love me, Mathilde?" she asked. Mathilde was not surprised.
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