New York dispatch. [volume], January 18, 1880, Image 1

About New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899

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PCBUSm BY A. J. WILLIAMSON’S SONS.
VOL. XXXV.--NO. IS.
Entered at the Post Office at New York,
N. Y., as Second Class matter.
THE NEW YORK DISPATCH,
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TBEATRIC - REiMSCENCES.
EDWIN FORREST.
Forrest’s Horror of Cant—A Scotch Father
and a German Mother—Forrest’s Dis
like of Macready—The Astor
Place Riots—A Queer Inci
dent — Forrest and the
Black Cat—The Grand
Reception in 1836.
J 3Y r JOHN CAKBOY.
Aside from a bad actor, Forrest had a horror of
©ant and hypocrisy in religion. Truthful himself,
bold and defiant in asserting his own belief upon
any subject, and caring not whether his expression
of his opinion brought him friends or made him
enemies, he detested any one who, irresolute and
timid, and to retain the good will of his fellows,
hesitated to utter what he believed to be the truth.
No man had a higher regard for sincerity in all
things than Forrest.; no one in his profession held
in greater respect the ministers of religion who
were faithful to their calling, and in their observ
ance of whatever creed of which they professed to
be the exponents. Of the Uriah Heeps, the Steg
ginses, the oi y Chadbands of the time, be had an
Immeasurable scorn, and one of these never left his
presence without inwardly praying that he might
Dever meet “ this gladiator ” again.
«‘These canting, funeral-faced hypocrites,” he
once said to a manager, “who are always denounc
ing actors and the stage as agents of Satan, are
always among the first, and the [most persistent in
asking our aid and contributions fortheir charities.
They will take our money and then sting us with
their anathemas in return. It is such fellows that
bring religion into contempt. Bichard 111. was a
saint compared to some of the crew I have met.”
FORREST’S FATHER AND MOTHER.
He was of the blood and nativity to be great and
strong, and true to his manhood and convictions.
His father was a Scotchman, and his mother a Ger
man—the former William Forrest, being a native
of Dumfrieshiro, a village near Solway Frith. In the
little graveyard of that faraway place is the plain
fctone tablet which bears the family name '\For
rest,” and beneath which rest three generations of
his ancestors This mortuary tablet lies within the
shadow of the old stone “kirk” where his fore
fathers were christened, married, and met in
solemn r observance of their religious duties, and
from which sad, tearful groups of their fellow
villagers followed them to their last resting place.
Forrest’s mother was Rebecca Lauman. “In a
email town, or rather hamlet, of a few houses near
Berlin,” says a writer, «‘I was shown - the ruins of a
cottage by the roadside. In that humble abode
lived for many years the parents of Edwin Forrest’s
mother. Here they remained many year?, thrifty
and happy. lam told that when the great trage
dian visited Europe the first time, he made a pil
grimage not only to this spot, but also to the birth
place of his father. But alas, for human ambition
—what is there in a name? I happened to mention
to a German professor with whom I was conversing
in Berlin, the name of Edwin Forrest.
“ ‘Forrest; who was he, an astronomer, eh?’
•• When I told him he was an American actor be
stared at me, wiped his glasses, replaced them upon
his nose, shrugged bis shoulders, and said, ‘ Is that
all?”’
Of all the members of the profession to whom he
•was at any time in antagonism, there was but one
with whom be was thoroughly disgusted. That one
was Macready, the English tragedian. Forrest
«ould not, or rather would not, understand him.
“That man,” said he—“that man, Macready, was
born to be a barrister, and in being an actor he has
woefully perverted the intention of his birth. AU
men have a purpose in life. Macready’s is to mud
dle Hamlet.”
In November, 18t3, the year before that in which
the Astor Place riot occurred, he openly denounced
Macready as “All self, self; nothing but an anima
ted ruckle of egotism,” and again he went for him
as a “supernnuated driveler.” In a letter, written
to a friend in Philadelphia, bo said:
“This man (Macready) is an automaton—a thing
©f bones, antics, vanity, and no soul. Yet there are
people, who call themselves critics, who pretend to
worship him and bis method.”
THE ASTOR PLACE RIOT.
The Astor P±ace riot—the first and it is to be hoped
tho last we shall ever have of its character—was sad
enough in its results.
Thirty lives were lost in the affray, and although
U is a sad thing to state, it is only a repetition of
the assertion of a journal of that day, that “There
wore twice thirty who were not killed who should
aave been had they received their proper desserts.”
Forrest was then playingjat the Broadway Theatre
to immense audiences. Never did actor receive
such nightly ovations; such demonstrations of pub
lic favor.
Some one remarked to him 49
“Was your greeting on your first night in Lon
don like this?*’
•■Uinph!” was the reply. “’That was the growl
of the lion over afresh meal; this is the thunder of
Jove, sir.”
Macready was playing, or rather announced to
play, Macbeth on the night of the riot, which began
at seven o’clock on the 19th of May, 1849. For
many days some such outbreak was anticipated, but
with all the premonitory symptoms before them
tho city authorities strangely neglected taking those
timely precautions which in all probability might
have prevented the loss of life.
There is now no question as to Forrest’s utter
disbelief that such a tumult would ensue. He used
AU his influence, despite his dislike of Macready, to
calm the popular excitement and make the rivalry
of tho American and Anti-American factions peace
able. That his efforts were vain and that the pa
pers of the time did much to fan the flame and
bring the trouble to a bitter and “a woful end”
are now matters of history. Forrest would have
protected Macready had it been in his power.
“Macready,” said an eye-witness of the scene,
“escaped by the skin of his teeth; no man ever
camo nearer being immolated upon the shrine of
his own temerity. Fifteen minutes after he was
hurried into a carriage by a few of his friends and
driven at break-nock speed to the North river, from
whence ha was hurried over to the Jersey side, an
sngry crowd collected in front of his hotel. When
they found that their intended prey had escaped
■"-nd wmj beyond their reach, their cries cf wrath
and dlwppointment would have made half a dozen
©ma’s howl.”
ONE OF THE INCIDENTS OF THE RIOT.
A funny tliioa is told la cs?aa«6tisu tUu jjpt.
At five o’clock on the afternoon of that fatal 19th of
May, th epedestrians on the west side of Broadway,
a block below Astor Place, were astonished to see a
large, heavy-shouldered, burly man suddenly rush
at a thin, tall, spare, pale-faced man and make a
desperate grasp at his coat collar, exclaiming as he
did so:
“Ha 1 you English s— of a b—, I’ve got you!”
But he didn’t have him, for the thin, well-dressed
individual eluded the outstretched hand, and utter
ing a wild yell of “Police! police!” sped away up
the street, the profane stout man roaring in full
pursuit after him. Presently the stout man, puff
ing and panting, stumbled and pitched headlong
upon tho pavement—spread out like a bat nailed on
a barn door —and almost upsetting another stout
person coming from an opposite direction. The
latter individual assisted the prostrate man to his
feet, who, looking into the face of his “lifter,”
started back, exclaimed:
‘•Why, Mr. Forrest, you—you—l—l—beg pardon;
bat—”
“What in do you mean, sir ?” said the trage-
dian. “ Are you crazy, or is it fits?”
•« d it,” was the answer. “ I just got my eyes
on that , etc., English hound Macready
and wanted to punch bis infernal head, but
., etc., if he didn’t slip away like an eel.”
‘•You’re a ruffian, sir. Had you beaten that man
you would have deserved hanging. That was not
Mr. Macready.”
The stout man glared a moment and disappeared
in the ckowd, and Forrest strode on. He said after
ward : K
“If that patriotic ruffiian had knewn what an in
ward laugh I was Having over his mistake, he
wouldn’t have disappeared so quick.” Ned Buut
line figured largely during the riot as the exponent
of spread eagle Americanism; but when the riot was
at its hight he was speedily taken care of by the of-
AN ACTOR’S SUPERSTITION.
As a rule actors are, it is asserted, superstitious,
Forrest had too strong a mind to be a victim of
these “ foreboding fancies prophetic of evils com
ing greater than those we bear.” Yet in his later
life, when age and the wear of the labor of his long
career began to press heavily upon him, he now and
then yielded to the common weakness which clings
to signs and augurs for its guides.
Once during his last visit to this city, while sit
ting m his parlor at the Metropolitan hotel, reading
a paper, he heard the door leading into his bed
room creak on Its hinges. It had been nearly closed.
Looking toward it he saw that it had opened wider,
and over the threshold he beheld creeping in an
enormous cat, as black as Erebus.
“ My first impulse,” said Forrest, in narrating the
circumstance to Mao, “ was to catch the beast
and throw her out of the window; but I relented.
Gout is no match for a cat In quickness. Then I
opened the hall door and drove her out. A black
cat brings bad luck, I am told. Well, well, Mac,
what worse luck can befall a man than old age and
a chronic gout, except—except death ?”
But the appearance of that black cat had its effect
upon him.
“ I dreamed of black cats every night for a week
after that, and once in my sleep I had a vision of a
company of gigantic black cats playing “ Hamlet,”
and the whole spectacle was so ludicrous, especially
the huge fellow, his great green eyes rolling in dia
bolic frenzy, who stalked in on his hind legs
as the ghost, that I awoke to find myself shaking
with laughter. Next day I had a terrific twinge of
rheumatism in my foot, and a friend who dropped
in to see me innocently mentioned the fact that the
skin of a black cat wrapped about my ankle would
effect a sure cure.”
READING AND ACTING.
“ How do you like this reading Shakespeare from
the rostrum ?” queried an acquaintance, the day
after the tragedian had appeared as a reader at
Steinway Hall.
“Reading Shakespeare behind a pulpit and acting
it in the theatre is like comparing the light of a
bedroom lamp with the glare of the noon-day sun,”
was the reply, j
A GRAND RECEPTION.
Probably in all his grand career the reception he
was best pleased with was that which greeted him
on the night of Monday, September sth, 1836, at
the Chestnut Street Theatre, it being his first ap
pearance after his return from Europe. At his en
trance as Damon the whole audience—and a vast
throng it was—arose and gave him cheer upon
cheer. For many minutes he stood facing that
multitude, silent, motionless. Such an outburst,
so continuous, he had not dreamed of. Again and
again the old theatre echoed andre-echoed with the
thunderous welcome. In the .boxes were the lead
ing notables of the city, and seme of the Quaker
City’s fairest women waved their laoe-edged hand
kerchiefs to and fro until their jeweled and gloved
hands ached.
“That night,” wrote one who was present upon
this occasion, “ will beforever memorable in the
annals of the history of the old Chestnut. And I
never saw Forrest play Damon so grandly, so
massively (if I may ba allowed the expression) as he
did then. He dwarfed the people on the stage, and
beseemed a giant who could with a single sweep of
his arm brush the pigmies around him from exist
ence. One old man in the boxes became so excited
and forgetful, or rather so lost in the spirit of the
play, when Forrest rushed upon Lzlcullus, grasped
him, and hurled him from his feet, that he cried
out:
‘“Don’t kill him—don’t kill him!’”
The old Chestnut Street Theatre, the scene of this
triumphal ovation, long since disappeared, and
with it have passed away to the silent halls of death
many hundreds of those whose cheers and applause
once echoed within its walls. Of those upon its
stage then there remain but a few. One of them is
now an honored and cherished member of Wallack’a
Company—Mr. John Gilbert.
They are gone, and are, no doubt, in that shadowy
realm beyond the stars with the greatest of them
all, at once their master and friend, Edwin Forrest.
‘He sleep? bis last sleep; no sound shall awake
.him to glory again;” but ho has left a legacy in the
history of his triumphs and the embodiments of
bis marvelous genius for which the theatrical pro
fessiop can never be too grateful, and which his
eouutry cannot cherish too faithfully.
HiGH ART IN PORK.
HOW AN ERRING DAUGHTER WAS
RESTORED TO HER PAR
EN T’S HEART.
The German papers don’t ever print true stories
about the young factory girls who write their
names in hats, match boxes, or something of the
sort, and then enter into correspondence with the
opulent purchasers, thousands of miles away, tilj
they marry them. But they seem to be in a fair
way to get that far soon, to judge from the follow
ing:
A merchant of Cologne made a pilgrimage to the
artistic Mecca, Dusseldorf. Having transacted his
business he strolled about, enjoying the various at
tractions of the city. Among |the things which at
tracted his attention was the window of a pork and
sausage shop. The artistic disposition of the bowls
of pickled pigs feet, the picturesque groupings of
the knuckles and pork pies, the aesthetic taste dis
played in the decoration and distribution of the
hams, sent a thrill to his soul, while the high art
which meandered through the festoons of frank
forters, blood puddings, bolognas, and other varie
ties of the sausage species fairly plunged him into
eestacy. Ho had never dreamed that such capabili
ties for loveliness existed in the humble hog be
fore. Even tho manufacture of a silk purse out of
tho aural appendage of a sow was possible after
this.
While he was feasting his eyes on this vision of
beauty a young woman began in an equally artistic
manner the decoration of the other shop window.
Like one charmed by the basilisk the Cologne mer
chant drew near to observe her. The young lady,
touched with pride at this testimonial to her pow
ers, blushed. Than she stole a glance at her ad
and uttered a Iqu£ shriek.
NEW YORK, SUNDAY, JANUARY 18, 1880.
lhe Cologne merchant gave vent to ajery.
Then he rushed into the shop and folded his
long-lost daughter in his arms. His long
lost daughter who had run away from home
to marry a sailor, and come down to tending a
sausage shop for a living, and whom, proud man as
he was, he could no longer disown. Art had van
quished resentment. Such talents absolved her
from all offence. They could not be permitted to
go out of the family.
And yet it has been said the German papers are
dull reading.
STRMGE CLEWS THRIME.
Three Remarkable Murders and the
Links Which Joined Them.
The Servant Man and the
Peddler.
A Startling Conversation Over
heard.
THE STRUGGLE IN THE BARN.
Bad Career of a Disinherited
Nephew.
The Clipped Bullet Which Led to
the Discovery of a Murder.
John Cooper kept a small hostelry at Castleford,
in Yorkshire, England. In June. 1829, a young man
calling himself William Jones, came to the place
and asked for employment. He said he knew all
about horses, and, furthermore, he wrote a good
hand. Cooper was illiterate, and had long felt the
need of some one to help him, as he had recently
built a flour mill and found it bard to keep reckon
ing with the farmers who brought their wheat to be
ground. Jones was about twenty-three, tall and
robust, and of very pleasing manners, and having
read to Cooper and his wife out of an old newspa
per, and shown them what he could do with a pen,
be was engaged at a salary of one pound a mouth
and his board.
About three weeks after this there came to the
house a peddler—a man nerly twice the age of Jones
and of a different kind. He was short and robust,
with red hair, a hump on one shoulder, and arms
unnaturally long and sinewy. This man drank his
ale, ate his bread and cheese, and offered bis wares
for sale. Then he sat by the fire, told good stories,
and related strange adventures in out-of-the-way
places among the hills and on the moors.
In the evening he walked outside with his pipe,
and watched Jones curry the horses and fodder
them for the night. Now it so happened that Coop
er’s bad-room was over the stable, and that, having
drank more than ordinary, he had gone to rest soon
after tea. After a two hours’ slumber he suddenly
awoke, and became conscious that two persons were
talking in the stable below. Getting off the bed
with due caution, he
PUT HIS EAR TO THE FLOOR,
and overheard distinctly what was said. What he
heard was this:
“Well,” said the peddler, “I came just as soon as
I got your letter. It lay at the cottage for some
days before I got It; but as soon as I read it I start
ed right away.’ c
“Tais thing cannot last much longer,” said Jones.
“I’m worn out already, but I am obliged to bear up
so as not to arouse suspicion. A nice idea, isn’t it,
for me to be doing this drudgery ?”
“It is your own fault,” was the answer; “why
did you not stop and face it out ? Why did you
sneak away and leave others to bear the brunt ?”
“Sneak away!” Jones said, in a bitter tone;
“ who would not have done the same, with the gal
lows staring him in the face ?”
“ You should have made a complete job of it,” the
peddler said; “ ‘dead men tell no tales.’ ”
“Look you here,” Jones replied; “as you know,
I’m not the man to flinch when a bullet or a knife
can do the business, but to put one’s own sister out
of the way is another matter altogether.”
“ The question now is,” said the peddler, “ what
are you going to do if you quit here ?”
“Go back to [the word was lost], and take my
chance,” was the answer.
“ You are a d d fool,” the peddler replied, in a
low growl.
“ And you are worse than a fool,” Jones said, “ or
you would have managed things better than keep
me waiting here.”
“ Well, we strangled the old wretch, anyhow,” the
peddler said, “and that puts him out of the way.
If you can’t manage your sister and get out of her
all you want, you will be to blame, and not I.”
The conversation was then continued in a lower
tone, and Cooper
CREPT CAUTIOUSLY FROM THE ROOM
and joined bis wife below stairs. Like many shrewd
business people who can neither read nor write,
Cooper and his wife had wonderfully retentive
memories, and Cooper related to his spouse word
for word the conversation which he had just over
heard.
After consulting together for some time, Mrs.
Cooper said :
“We’ve had trouble enough on our hands with
our boy who is now over the sea, suffering for his
share in that poaching affray at Shadwick Hall.
Don’t let us meddle with this matter, whatever it
may be.”
“But it may bring us into worse trouble still,”
Cooper replied. “Murder has been done, and the
men who did it are under our roof and one of them
is our servant. If this was found out, it might
go all the harder with us, because our boy has been
in almost as bad a trouble himself.”
After a pause, Mrs. Cooper said:
“There’s still two hours of daylight. I’ll put on
my things and go over to my brother’s. He’s a
constable, and will be able to advise us what to do.
I’ll stay there all night, and you must keep the men
here till I get back in the morning early.”
This was agreed to, and Mrs. Cooper departed.
Later on Jones and the peddler capae into the house
and sat with Cooper and a number of guests until
the place was closed. Then the peddler went with
Jones to ths inner kitchen where he slept, and
Cooper retired to his own room.
When Mrs. Cooper returned next morning it was
past seven o’clock. The house, greatly to her sur
prise, was closed, but on going to the rear she
found the back door on the latch. As she was about
to enter, William Meek, a neighbor, called to her
from the window adjoining:
“What’s the matter, mistress,” he said, “that
John has not opened house by this time ?”
Mrs. Cooper was in such a state of fear and trepi
dation that she could hardly answer, and Meek ob
serving this climbed the fence and joined her.
Then she briefly told him how she had been away
all night at her brother’s on business, and was
AFRAID SOMETHING HAD HAPPENED.
Meek entered the house with her. Everything
appeared as it had been left over night, but on go
ing to the small room occupied by Jones,, they
found that it was empty, and the bed showed signs
of not having been slept upon. This, for reasons
known to the reader, excited Mrs. Cooper’s fears
greatly, and, accompanied by Meek, she went up
stairs to her husband’s bedroom. John Cooper lay
on the bed undressed, and dead.
When the authorities came to inquire into the
case, it was found that Cooper had been strangled
with a kerchief, which lay twisted upon the floor.
A strong oaken chest, which usually lay under the
bed, had been drawn out and broken open. From
it was missing a large sum of money which the
couple had been saving for years, so that when
their unfortunate son and only child—who, as may
be already inferred, had broken the laws and been
transported across the seas—returned from his
long imprisonment, a provision might be made for
his future comfort
Before the coroner Mrs. Cooper related the facts
already in possession of the reader, respecting the
employment of Uw
heard.
fearless antr fnhpnhnt
and the conversation overheard by Cooper between
the two men, showing that they were old acquaint
ances and
ASSOCIATES IN SOME DREADFUL CRIME.
The words, “we strangled the old wretch,”
seemed to bear directly on the killing of Cooper,
showing that the men had already perpetrated a
similar crime. Mrs. Cooper also remembered that
Jones had once helped her husband to put a new
lock on tbe oaken chest, although the money was
not visible and never referred to.
Still it was natural to suppose that Jones would
not believe that so strong a box with a secure lock
was required merely for the sake of keeping a few
old-fasbioned garments which lay on the top of the
contents, and were alone visible to Jones.
A careful description of the two men was ob
tained, and officers were sent for to Leeds to go in
pursuit of them. At a public house just outside
Pontefract, on the way to the great north road, the
officers heard tidings of them. They were there
when a man brought the news of Cooper’s murder,
but almost immediately quitted the place and went
up by tbe castle toward the country.
The same eight the officers were upon their
track, but had to give up the search and seek shel
ter in a farm-house till next day. Early in the
morning they arose just at dawn and heard a com
motion outside. Hastily dressing, they went out
and found the farmer and his man in a state of
great alarm and astonishment. One of tbe men
said that on going into the barn they found a man
lying on the straw with a broken leg. Tbe officers
saw the man who said that his name was Story, and
that ho belonged to Castleford; that he was former
ly in the employ of Cooper, but enlisted, and bad
just been discharged; that he had saved some mo
ney, and was on his way to his former home when
night came on, and
HE SOUGHT SHELTER IN THE BARN.
He said that he was roused out of his sleep by
two men whom he described, and who were evident
ly Jones and the peddler; that they questioned him
as to who he was, and then attempted to rob him;
that he had a struggle and was thrown, and that his
leg was broken. He said that as be lay half insen
sible the two men rifled his pockets, took from him
all he bad, and decamped.
The constable of Castleford, who was with tbe
two officers from Leeds, recognized Strong and bore
out his statement as to bis having been in Cooper’s
employ and enlisted. The man was removed to the
house and medical aid was procured. Thea the
officers returned to their pursuit of Jones and the
peddler, and finally got wind of them in a coppice
skirting tho road. They at first offered resistance,
but were captured and secured. On Jones was
found over eleven hundred pounds in Bank of Eng
land Dotes, the sum which was missing from Coop
er’s strong box. They were conveyed to Castleford
and committed by the coroner for the wilful mur
der of John Cooper. They were then removed to
Wakefield on July 21st, to await their trial.
They denied any knowledge of the murder of
Cooper, and Jones said that Cooper was aware of
his departure as he informed him of his intention
before they retired on tbe night of the murder, and
received from him the amount of money due to
him, for which he wrote a receipt. This receipt
was actuary found in tbe money drawer in Cooper’s
barroom.
The story told by the two men of what happened
after they quitted Castleford was singular. It was
about one o’clock in the morning when they left
the premises of Cooper. They observed a light in
his bedroom, and remarked that the old man was
awake. Just then the light was extinguished, and
the next instant the window, which was an old
fasbioped lattice, opening down the middle, was
thrown open.
A FIGURE OF A WOMAN
emerged. The person dropped to the ground;
scaled tbe fence close by, and disappeared. Jones
said to his companion that he supposed Cooper had
taken advantage of bis wife’s absence to receive one
of his lady friends, though he never thought he was
a man of taat sort. The peddler, in reply, said she
was a nimble girl to climb the fenco as she did.
The two then went on to Pontefrart, and remained
there in a public house until late in the day.
On hearing of the murder of Cooper they were
astounded, and saw at once that suspicion might
rest on them. They resolved, therefore, to quit the
neighborhood as speedily as possible. They took
refuge in the barn at the place where the officers
stayed, and while in the act of going to sleep were
aroused by the en try of a third person. This man
struck a match, and, shading it carefully from out
side view, took out a package of bank notes and
counted them. The impression seized both Jones
and tbe peddler that this man must be the mur
derer of Cooper. They resolved simultaneously to
get tbe money, and, waiting an opportunity, they
sprang ou him. He resisted, and bis leg was broken
by a fall which the long-armed peddler gave him.
Then the two men gaahered up the money and
quitted the place. They were in doubt as to what
course to follow; but at length, being short of
funds, resolved to appropriate the money and go to
London.
In corroboration of this strange story, a calico
dress was found thrust into a drain in a field ad
joining Cooper’s, and this dress was identified by
Mrs, Meek as one which she missed from the line
in her yard the very day after the murder.
As to the man Strong, he stuck to his original
story, but a remarkable fact came to light. He
swore that the two men robbed him of all his sav
ings, which an entry in his pocket-book showed
were twenty-seven pounds, seventeen shillings. In
a leathern bag found in his jacket pocket that pre
cise sum was discovered, and though he tried to
explain this it was a signal failure. Strong was in
victed, tried for Cooper’s murder and convicted of
the crime. Before his execution he admitted that
his sentence was just. He said his visit to Cooper
was friendly, but on reaching tbe bouse be found it
closed. There was
A LIGHT IN COOPER’S ROOM,
and climbing to the window which was easy of
access, he peered through and saw the old man over
his strong box counting bis notes. The idea seized
Strong to get the money. He climbed the fence and
walked about in the adjoining field, considering
what he should do. Seeing a gown flapping in the
night wind, the disguise was suggested. He pro
cured the dress, donned it, and, after the light in
Cooper’s room had been extinguished for a reason
able time, mounted to the window and entered.
Cooper slept heavily, and Strong,'using ajeotton ker.
chief which lay at the sleeping man’s pillow, stran
gled him after a terrible struggle. Then he took
the money and departed.
Though Jones and the were released on
the charge of murder, they were detained until the
London authorities could be communicated with,
as it was evident from the conversation overheard
between them by Cooper, and repeated by him to
his wife who in her return repeated it to the offi
cers of justice, that they had been guilty of some
grave crime. Though an expert detective, by name
Grover, was sent down neither of tbe men was iden
tified, and as it was impossible to detain them with
out some specific charge, they were released, no
attempt being made to hold them for the robbery
of Strong.
THE SEQUEL.
In March, 1833, Detective Grover was sent down to
Wath near Rotherham, to investigate the mysterious
death of George Sandeman, a wealthy resident. He
had gone out shooting with his gamekeeper after
breakfast, and two hours later was found dead in a
wood near by with a bullet through his chest. The
keeper said that he quitted his master when ho
entered the wood, and that as he was crossing the
home field five minutes later he heard tbe dis
charge of a gun, and supposed that Mr. Sandeman
had shot at a rabbit or a bare. The gun lying by
the side of the corpse had been discharged, and the
post mortem examination ended in finding the
bullet embedded in the tissue behind the man’s
left lung. Tne gun found was Mr. Sandeman’s own
fowling piece. The bullet found in the corpse was
peculiar, having evidently been pared with a knife.
Miss Sandeman, George’s sister, gave important
testimony. She said that George had caused some
new bullets to be cast, and that she was present
tried them aad foqod they were a
too large for the gun. Thereupon Bhe snggested
paring or scraping them, but he said it was too
tedious a job. Then she took one of the bullets
and clipped it all round with a knife. Even then,
however, it was too large for George’s gun. George
said it would fit his old fowling-piece, and Miss
Sandeman, with her own hands, loaded it and put
in the bullet which she had clipped. A few min
utes afterward the keeper came into the room
where George kept his sporting implements, and
asked his master whether he was going out shoot
ing. George replied that he was, and told the
keeper to
TAKE THE OLD FOWLIN G-PIEOE
and accompany him. He did so, and the two men
departed in company. Miss Sandeman identified
the bullet found in the body as the one she had
clipped.
This remarkable testimony resulted in the arrest
of the keeper, and almost at the same time it was
ascertained that George Sandeman had only the
day before his death executed a will by which he
had left the sum of five thousand pounds to his
“faithful keeper and friend, John Ridgwortb.”
When Detectftre Qrover reached Wath, these facts
were narrated to him. On seeing the remains of
George Sandema n, he immediately identified the
dead man as the person hitherto known as William
Jones. Without saying a word, he sought the
presence of Ridgwortb, the keeper, expecting to
recognize in him the peddler. He was not disap
pointed. To be brief, Ridgworth ultimately con
fessed that he shot George Sandeman, and related
the story or their long association.
Ridgworth was formerly the groom of George’s
uncle, by whom George and his sister were brought
up. George had grown very wild and made away
with a large amount of money, so that his uncle
swore he would disinherit him and leave all bis
wealth to his niece. The uncle subsequently had
an attack Of paralysis, and after he recovered, found
that George had sold three of his best horses and
spent the money. His uncle sent for a lawyer and
made a will, as was supposed, in favor of George’s
sister. George was informed by the servants that
the lawyer was to bring the will the next day for
signature. That night Ridgworth was in attendance
on his old master, who was subject to occasional fits
of insanity and needed watching. In the middle of
the night George entered the bedroom, and, with
the aid of Ridgwortb, strangled bis uncle. Then a
rope was placed
ROUND THE NECK OF THE CORPSE
and the body so fixed as to make it appear that the
unfortunate man had committed suicide by hang
ing himself to the bedpost. To his great'inortiflea
tion, George learned next day that the will had
already been signed, giving all to his sister. He
disappeared, but it was generally supposed that he
had gone away in disgust and chagrin at being dis
inherited. Ridgwortb, who had urged George to
put his sister out of the way, also, remained behind
and saw through the coroner’s inquest and the in
terment. He then sought George, from whom he
had received a letter telling him bis whereabouts.
When George learned that as suspicions of foul
play existed, and that it could be proved beyond a
doubt that his uncle was insane when he made the
will, he resolved to return. The reader knows the
rest. On coming across the man Strong with the
plunder in his possession, the temptation to take it
was too great. Soon after George’s return home,
an amicable arrangement was made of the property,
and he settled down at Wath, taking Ridgworth
into his employ as keeper. From time to time, how
ever, Ridgworth demanded large sums of money
to keep quiet, and ultimately induced George to
make a will as statad. The murder of the unfor
tunate and misguided young man followed. Ridg
worth was banged at York in the Fall of 1833.
THE CRIMSON CROSS.
How Date-Tree Hall was Doom
ed to Destruction.
YELLOW JACOB’S PLOT.
Assassinating a Master to Get Rid
ot a Rival.
THE MAROON’S VENGEANCE.
The Warning Written in an
Enemy’s Blood.
MIDNIGHT VISITORS.
The Banquet of Death and the
G-rave of Fire.
In a recent number of the Kingston Gazette ap
peared the following item:
“The Date-Tree Hall property was put up at auc
tion yesterday, and purchased for £2OO by the Col
onial Treasurer. It will be made the site of a leper
hospital. In 1869 this property could not be bought
for £50,000. It was sold to pay arrears of taxes.
There were no competing bidders. Previous to the
opening of the sale a colored exhorter in the street
warned the public against purchasing on the ground
that the place was cursed. The story of the tragedy
inseparably associated with it was told in exagger
ated detail, and with the desired effect. The original
bid of the Government representative found no op
position, and in a few months an asylum for the
most hideous of known diseases will occupy the
site infamous for one of the most hideous tragedies
ever known.”
The tragedy alluded to is a household word in Ja
maica. It is told there with the title of
“THE MAROON’S CURSE.”
At six o’clock on the morning of November 20th,
1869, the body servant of Malcolm MacDonald of
Date-Tree Hall, in the Manchester District of the
island of Jamaica, carried his master’s customary
morning coffee to him. He found the planter in
bed, stone dead, with a long-bladed, horn-handled
hunting-knife buried in his heart.
The corpse lay on its back, and the bedding,
though soaked to a pulp with blood, was otherwise
so little disturbed that it was evident murder had
crept upon the sleeping man unawares and executed
itself without resistance. The room was not in the
least disarranged either. No object whatever was
missing. The doors and windows were closed, as the
dead man had been in the habit of closing them
when ho retired. There was no trace of the en
trance or exit of the assassin, any more than there
was any suggestion of the identity of the criminal.
Every sign pointed to the murder having been com
mitted by one most familiar with the house.
Among the people to whom the horror-stricken
servants of the murdered man conveyed swift news
of his tragic fate was Captain Grattan, the chief of
the constabulary of the district. He at once recog
nized the deadly knife as one which had belonged
to him. It bad been part of an elaborate outfit sent
to him from England a couple of years before on
the occasion of a hunting tour of his among the
Maroons of the Blue Mountains. The knife, along
with some other portable property, had been stolen
from him during his sojourn among the Maroons.
It still bore, engraved on the tarnished plate on the
handle
THE INIITALS OF HIS NAME.
Among the dependents of Date-Tree Hall was a
pretty quadroon girl called Chicksy among her fa
miliars, who served Mrs. MacDonald;in the capacity
of maid. Mrs. MacDonald was an Englishwoman
of thirty-five, who had been a jbeauty in the days
when the wealthy West Indian fell in love
with her in a London drawing-room. The most de
voted attachment existed between her husband and
herself. At the time of the murder she occupied a
separate room from him in consequence of her
being enciente, and in daily expectation of confine
mmt. The horror of his fearful end precipitated
that event, and while the investigations were going
on she was delivered of a still-born babe. The girl
Chicksy was her most devoted attendant.
This girl had two admirers.
One was the mulatto body servant of the planter,
the same who had made the first Jdiscovery of the
murder, Jacob by name. The other a vagabond
on of by turns hunter, horse
OFFICE, M 11 FRANKFORT BT.
breaker, and whatever other outside service was
required of him. The 'fellow who was best known
as Joe Breezer, the nearest approach to a name he
had ever probably owned was a Maroon, with the
untamable spirit of that strange half savage race
of brutes gone wild with freedom, and a saturnine
and violent temper. He had frequent quarrels with
his companions, and his insolence had more than
once provoked his master to chastise him. Only
the day before MacDonald had lashed him with bis
riding whip, and he had
GONE OFF SWEARING VENGEANCE.
“That is a suspicious coincidence,” remarked
Captain Grattan to whom Yellow Jacob communi
cated this information in the course of the Inquiry
into the murder. Yellow Jacob, it was noticed af
terward, had been most officious in the matter from
the first. *
“An’ dere am more yet,” observed the negro cun
ningly, “Dere am sumpin, sah, dal am more
specious yet.”
“What is that?”
“I done see Joe Breezer often wid a knife jess
like dat, ear.”
“Are you sure of that ?”
“I’se most leady forswear it war all de same
knife, sab.”
“The devil. He Is a Maroon you say?”
“Yes, Massa Captin.”
“Is he a short, heavily built man, with deep sot
eyes, one blue and the other brown?”
“An’ wid a knife slash across him face, sah, too.”
Captain Grattan slapped his thigh energetically.
“The very fellow,” he cried, “My old guide in
the mountains. I always suspected him of those
thefts. But where is he now?”
“Him no been see since Mass Malcolm done
GIBE HIM DE LASH, SAH.”
This was enough. A man hunt waa at once or
ganized, and Joe Breezer run down in a groggery in
Manchester. He had been on a drunk for three
days, and professed to be in total ignorance of the
planter’s death. When told of it he shsugged his
shoulders and observed:
“Well, it sabe me de trouble,”
He acknowledged to have stolen the knife as well
as the other articles while serving Captain Grattan
as guide, but swore he had lost it some months be
fore. Where had he lost it? Well, to tell the truth,
he had suspected Yellow Jacob of stealing it Jacob
and he had been on bad terms for a long time, on
account of their rivalry for the favor of the pretty
quadroon. When informed that it was Jacob him
self who had first directed suspicion at him for the
murder, he became so furious that he could hardly
be restrained. Though locked in the strongest cell
in Manchester jail and double ironed, he managed
to escape that night Next day Yellow Jacob was
found with his skull beaten to pieces on the veranda
of Date Tree Hall. On the door of the house was
smeared with a human finger dipped in the blood
of the murdered mulatto a broad crimson cross.
It was a symbol familiar by tradition, at least to
all the blacks, the mark the Maroons set on any
spot
THEY DOOM TO DESTRUCTION.
( “Date Tree Hall am crossed,” said the awe-stricken
negross. “Joe Breezer set de mark on it, an it am
gone.”
Joe Breezer was sought far and wide, but vainly.
He had made his escape into the mountains where
it would have taken an army to arrest him.
Since her confinement Mrs. MacDonald had been
a.helpless invalid, so dangerously feeble that it was
impossible to move her. The girj Chicksy was cor
( stantly by her side. On the tenth night after the
death of Yellow Jacob, a violent tempest was
raging. The sick woman was very restless, and the
girl got no sleep. As the night wore on, however,
she fell into a doze in a chair, from which she was
suddenly awakened by a strong wind blowing wetly
in her face.
She started to her feet, but before she could cry
out someone leaped at her from the window ledge
from which the jalousies had been pushed back, and
caught her by the throat. Behind this intruder a
dozen others poured into the room. Half nakol,
dripping wet and armed to the teeth, the girl recog
nized in the fellow barbarians of her old lover, and
in the man who held her Maroon Joe himself.
While he still jsept her quiet, his companions
fastened the sick woman to her bed with strips torn
from the sheets. Then they plundered the room,
tumbling whatever they considered worth the
taking into a sheet. This task completed, they
went from room to room until the house
WAS COMPLETELY RIFLED.
Wherever they found a servant, they bound him
or her, and left them gagged and helpless. It tooK
an hour to complete this, when half a dozen huge
packages of plunder were gathered in Mrs. Mac
donald’s room. Leaving his followers <o perform
this task, Joe Breezer meanwhile had forced his
sweetheart to set out an ample meal on the long
table in the dining-hall. Cold provender in pro
fusion loaded the board. The savage denizens of
the mountains took a barbaric delight in feasting
off the dead planter’s choicest viands, by the light
of wax candles enough to illuminate a ball-room.
The stock of light wines was soon gone, and they
demanded more. The girl, who waited on them,
said there was nothing drinkable left but rum.
“ Bring the rum, then 1”
ggln the store-room where the liquor was kept was
also a supply of other articles used about the place.
One of these was a paper of arsenic. The girl’s
eyes no sooner lighted oa it than her purpose was
formed. Jn a moment she had empted the deadly
drug into the liquor. Shortly afterward the ma
rauders were washing down their feast with
draughts of liquor each of which
WAS CERTAIN DEATH.
Little more is definitely known. Toward day
light people living within sight of Date Tree Hall
saw it sudddenly burst into flame. Before help
could reach it it was a hell of fire, out of which the
cries of the agonized wretches, being roasted alive,
rang like the wails of so many devils. In the road
close to the house Mrs. Macdonald was found in
sensible, with her servant kneeling beside her.
The poor woman died before night.
After giving the Maroons the rum, Chicksey had
managed to slip away into her mistress’s room,
leaving them to their banquet of death. She barred
the door, unbound the Jsick woman, and with in
finite trouble got her to the veranda, and so into
the road, even while the Maroons, suspicious of her
absenca, were thundering at the securely fastened
door.
What followed can only be imagined. The rohg
bers, experiencing already the pangs of the poison,
and mad with strong drink, probably lost all con
trol of themselves, and went from room to room
murdering their prisoners till they themselves
dropped in the agonies of disssolution. Over this
scene of blood and horror the conflagration, started
evidently by an overturned candle, spread avail of
fire. The house burned to a mere shell, the furious
rain keeping its exterior intact. So for years Date
Tree Hall, abandoned and faccursed, made a black
blot on the fair tropical landscape,
SHUNNED BY ALL.
A fit spot to be haunted by the grim memories of
one of the ghastliest crimes in the island’s history,
it is also an appropriate site for that saddest and
dreariest of abodes—that worse than living tomb—
a hospital for the incurably diseased.
In his official report of the tragedy Captain Grat
tan writes:
“ In regard to the murder of Mr. MacDonald I beg
leave to propound a theory based on my minute in
vestigations. There is no doubt in my mind that
Jacob Reece, otherwise known as Yellow Jacob, was
the assassin. He was a notorious thief, and had
been frequently chastised by his master for bis
peculations. The memories of these injuries he
nreasured in a mind naturally as vengeful as cun
ning. When with his rival’s knife in his possession
he iound an opportunity to use it on one man he
hated, and point the suspicion of its use at another
enemy, he did not hesitate to do so. On the night
of the murder the maroon, Joe Breezer, was actu
ally drunk ia a Manchester grog-shop from sunset
till morning.”
Date Tree Hall possessed a curious feature of
historical as well as tragic interest. It occupied the
site of an ancient hunting lodge of Governor Sir
John Morgan, and on the lawn ia front of it the ex
pirate is alleged to have hanged more than one of
his old fellow freebooters.
PRICE FIVE CENTS.
AS WE MAKE IT.
Oh, call not this a vale of tears,
A world of gloom and sorrow;
One-half the grief that o’er us comes,
From self we often borrow.
The earth is beautiful and good;
How long will man mistake it?
The folly is within ourselves;
The world is what we make It.
Did we but strive to make the best
Of troubles that befall us.
Instead of meeting cares half-way,
They would not so appal us.
Earth has a spell for loving hearts; '
Why should we seek to break it ?
Let’s scatter flowers instead of thorns-*
The world is what we make it.
If truth and love and gentle words.
We took the pains to nourish,
The seeds of discontent would die,
And peace and concord flourish.
Oh, has not each some kindly thought?
Then let’s at once awake it;
Believing that for good or ill.
The world is what we make it.
Cajjlii) Ag Stag.
Which Loved Him Best ?
BY THS AUTHOR OF
“ELAINE THE TRUE,” “LADY DAMBB’s SB0BBT,”
‘•DOHA THORNE,” ETC.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
“CLARICE HAD NEVER WRITTEN TO LORD BIE
BUBN BEFORE.”
The sixth of June. In the drawing-room of
Norwood House the countess and her daugh
ter sat resting after the fatigue of a breakfast
given to a few friends. A letter had been re
ceived from the earl, saying that his return
had been unavoidably postponed for two or
three days, but that he was certainfto be at
home by the tenth. He wished his wife to tell
Lord Ryebarn that, and to add that seventeen
days would be quite sufficient time for their
. business.
The countess had just bethought herself of
, the message, which had not yet been doliv
-1 cred.
“I wish,’ 1 she said in a plaintive voice to
Lady Clarice, “that your papa would not bur
-1 den me with messages; he knows that I have
more than enough to think about.”
Lady Gordon Hay laughed a little, as she did
at most of her mother’s repinings. There was a
’ curiousy strong affection between the two, yet
in everything Lady Gordon Hay was greatly
, her mother’s superior. She had a fashion of
i treating the countess very much like a refrac
tory child; she laughed at her persistent indo
i lence, she humored all her petty whims and ca
-1 prices. She was more like the mother than
' the child, while Lady Norwood had the most
1 exalted idea of her daughter’s gifts and trghi
‘ intelligence.
“I suppose, Clarice, that message must gc
’ to-day? It is rather inconsiderate ot your pa
pa; but husbands never are considerate. It J
had allowed little things to trouble me, J
should have lost all my nerve. Clarice, is youi
—is Lord Ryeburn coming to-day ?”
The lovely face flushed hotly; the girl ben!
her head over her book.
“I do not know, mamma,” she replied.
“Let me think,” said the countess; “he was
here last Thursday. I have not seen him since;
have you, Clarice ?”
“No, mamma, I have not.”
“There is such a difference in lovers,” said
Lady Norwood in the same plaintive tones.
“Some are quite troublesome. No one can say
that of Lord Ryebnrn.”
A smile that had some bitterness in it played
round the sweat mouth.
“We cannot say, mamma, that ho has tired
us,” she said. “looking back, Ido not find
that he has ever paid us a voluntary visit; he
comes always when you ask him—seldom or
never without.”
“I attribute it to the strange position in
which you stand toward each other. There is
one thing certain —we have never heard one
word of his admiration for any one else, have
wo ?”
•■No; we have not,” replied Lady Gordon
Hay.
“ 1 will tell you what I think, Clarice,” said
the countess, with a little more energy than
usual. “ I feel sure that Lord Ryeburn loves
you; but, being an honorable man, be will not
mention it—ho will never say one word about
it until he has seen your father and the busi
ness part is settled.”
“Perhaps not,” allowed Lady Gordon Hay,
sighing as she spoke. She would have pre
ferred his thinking less of business and more
of herself. ,
“The best thing, Clarice, will be for you to
write a note and tell Lord Ryeburn wbat your
papa says. I would write myself but that I an»
so very tired. Do it at once, my dear; be will
have the note this evening, and will probably
call.”
There was something almost pathetic about
the manner in which Lady Clarice hastened to
obey her mother. She had never written to
the young nobleman before, and she loved him
so well. It was quite a labor of love. She went
to the little escritoire made of inlaid wood and
silver, and sat down to write to him. She look
ed at the sheet of paper.
“HI could write there what I should like to
say,” she thought, “it would be, ‘Oh, dearest,
why will you not love me ? Why are you so
cold and~so silent ? Why do you shrink from
me rather than seek me? Why do you avoid
me ? I am fair in the eyes of other men; why
am I not fair in yours ? 1 love you, cold and
silent as you are; why can you not love me ? I
listen and wait; but from your lips never falls
one kind, one tender word for me.’ If I wrote
that, what would be say or do? Would be like
it ? Would the cold calmness of his face break
up and gleams of tenderness brighten his eyes ?
How I long to do it!”
She held the pen lightly poised above the pa
per; the temptation was great; but Its con
venances were too much for her. Her first lot- •
ter must be a model of propriety; it must begin,
"My dear Lord Ryeburn,” and end, “Yours
very sincerely, Clarice Gordon Hay.” There
must be no foolishness in it, not one word too
much or too little.
It was pretty to see how she chose the sheet
of paper with her prettiest monogram—“C. G.
H.”—the envelope with the clearest crest; it
was pretty, yet piteous, because it showed how
she loved him.
“Clarice, tell Lord Ryeburn to call this even
ing,” said the countess. “We shall ba at
home. Ido not intend going out.”
“I think, mamma.it would be better to leave
it to him,” she returned gently. “Ho may be
busy.”
Sbe longed to write it, but her pride would
not let her. If he cared to come, he would
come; if not, he should not ha?Q t 9 (Icolme her
jayltetisa-