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llv\l /r Jf | f i ll *% iL -Jl XI (Hil rfiflur f i t ; , ~ V T’“ SfW Z “r^'r— T _ jgQg) ■ — t ®U^a,~-taia^-4.^feg A ' : ----<ss£:- -—r” -< - PUBLISHED BY A. J. WILLIAMSON’S SONS. VOL. XL.-N0.7. Entered at the Post Office at Mew xork, N. Y., as Second Class Matter. THE NEWYOUK DISPATCH, PUBLISHED AT NO. 11 FRANKFORT STREET. The NEW YORK DISPATCH is a journal of light, agree able and sparkling Literature and News. One page is de voted to Masonic Matters, and carefiil attention is given to Music and the Drama. The Dispatch is sold by all News Agents of the city and suburbs, at FIVE CENTS A COPY. TERMS FOR MAIL SUBSCRIBERS: SINGLE SUBSCRIPTIONS $2 50 a year TWO SUBSCRIBERS 400 “ FIVE SUBSCRIBERS 900 “ ALL MAIL SUBSCRIPTIONS MUST BE PAID IN AD VANCE. POSTAGE PAID EVERYWHERE BY THE DISPATCH OFFICE. Address NEW YORK DISPATCH, Post Office Box No. 1775. THEATRIC miMSMCES. The Thanks Given. Tile Prodigal Son. of Thespis—John Duff’s Thanhs—Frank Murtha—Dan Froh man’s Search—Townsend Percy’s Escape—The Pretty Bar maids at Wallack’s- John Poole’s Poetry —Stetson on Gril sey, etc., etc. BY JOHN CARBOY. “Thanksgiving eh ? Well, if the President of these United States would issue a proclamation to all the snide and snap managers in the country to pay their companies at least one week’s salary out of every ten weeks on the road, and the managers did it, there’d be such a thanksgiving among us as’d make Rome howl. Thanksgiving Day, eh ? “ There’s a lot of us just got in, and we’ll be thankful if we can work a free lunch route, and catch onto a square booze, without being kicked into the street. Turkey dinner? If turkey dinners were only a cent a piece, there ain’t one of our crowd able to buy a spoonful of the stuffin. I shoved up my overcoat in Rochester, my emotional dress suit in Auburn, and left the rest of my traps in Albany, and that’s the way I got back from Indi ana, last week. And that’s the sort of Thanksgiving bird I am. There’s ten more plucked birds like me in the gang.’’ Thus spoke the Prodigal Son of Thespis, returned from the land of the Hoosiers, where at Richmond, on the banks of the Whitewater, his combination was wrecked. Wrecked? Ah, the wrecks—the human wrecks— that were drifting, tossing, here and there, on the dark sea of trouble, even on Thaksgiving Day, to any of whom a nickle for bread, or for the transient comfort of a swallow of whisky, would have been a blessing to be remembered ever after. THERE IS ROOM FOR THANKSGIVING EVERY <’ DAY in the year—thanks that our misfortunes, what ever be their nature, are no worse; thanks that for every enemy who may seek to injure us either in business or character, there is ' always a friend to rise up in our that for every wrong Thera is surely a Juag ment which will right it, and thanks that the one substantial square meal we may have in our days cf poverty is not accompaniod by the pangs of in digestion. Thanks that if we cannot fare sumptu ously at Delmonico’s or the Brunswick, we can at least knock the belligerent cravings of a rampant appetite out in one round with a ten-cent grocery pie; thanks that if we haven’t even the ten cents, there is left us the courage and cheek to borrow it, and thanks that if we cannot deadhead our way into the theatres, there is left us the inalienable privi lege of damning the managers. On last Thanksgiving Day thanks were on tap everywhere. Thanks were uncorked, poured out, and taken in everywhere. Turkeys were stuffed with crumbs of thankfulness, and wore devoured with a grateful sense of good will which, if it were kept up, would make all the [world a kindergarten cf jollity. John Duff, stout, jolly, and with never a limp of the gout in his gait; solid, gruff, and substantial, stood in front of the new Standard Theatre, and murmured sweetly unto 'himself thanks to the Lord for being able to have his son instead of a son in-law as a manager, and a new theatre instead of a gloomy old ramshackle of a place, in which to in vest his capital. •' There’s a theatre,” quoth John, in his vigorous, earnest way, but in a tone of placid sweetness as compared? with that with which he sandpapers a dead-head’s prayer for mercy, and a seat coupon— “ There’s a theatre, my boy, and I’m thankful that it is going to be one of the handsomest and safest in the city. And I’m thankful that I’ve got a son in * young Jim,’ who understands what he is about, and who cares more for a principle than h» does for a petticoat, and who knows how to manage a theatre on a business basis.” Standing in the shadow of the wooden Shakes peare in the lobby of the Park Theatre was Frank Murtha. There was A SMILE ON HIS FACE AND A DOLLAR BILL Itf HIS HAND. “Thanksgiving,” he said; “well, I am thankful that my late wrestle with comic opera, and spar ring with Grand Duchesses, costumes and cavalry, general capitalists have left me strength enough to stand alone. See this dollar bill ? That’s the extent of my financial muscle at the present time. Let us go around the corner and. buy some thanks— straight. No? Well, some other time then. I’ve got Ben Teale up stairs in the office reading a new play. Here, Jimmy”—this to a stout young man with a thin moustache, a plug-hat and a sort of ready-for-anything expression, camping out on the clearing of his face—“here, take this dollar and get a pint of fourth-proof vitality and carry it up to Teale, it’ll keep him alive till he get’s to the fourth act of the manuscript. Tell him to be thankful—if he survives either one of the evils.” The. Moss—up in his sanctum in an easy chair— “ Thanksgiving? Of course f’m thankful. Any man ought to be when ho has survived one dose of Buchanan and isn’t likely to be compelled to swal low another. No more ‘ Constance’ in mine. We’ve got the Governor on the boards now to fill up the gap; and ‘do you know,’he’s as lively as a cricket— I don’t mean a particularly young cricket, but a middle-aged cricket. And he’s thankful, too, that he is still able to face the footlights and hear once more the kindly welcome which for nearly forty years has been his from the public.” Ah, me 1 there is but one Wallack left to the stage, and for that blessing let us be thankful. He has out lived three generations of playgoers. He has come down to us as one of the survivors of an epoch in the history of the American stage when actors were artists—now we have an abundance of theatric art ists but very few actors. Let us be thankful that we can call the fakes artists and still not be obliged to recognise them as actors. And while I am in the thanksgiving mood let me be thankful that I have lying upon the desk at which I am now writing, a manuscript memory of dear OLD DAVE ANDERSON, whom I saw totter on the stage for the last time at the Star Theatre during the late engagement of Edwin Booth. “ Dave on that occasion repeated his performance of Polonius—a character which in many respects he had made peculiarly his own. I remember that he began playing “ old man ” where it required a very careful make up to give his young and un wrinkled face, with its strong manly force of expres sion, the appearance of old age. I remember—and I am thankful for the pleasant memory—meeting him many and many years ago in Albany, under Aftech’s old Museum, in what was then known as the “ Marble Pillar.” Charley Smith was then the manager for Meech, and in the company were Mrs. Mossop (now Mrs. John Drew), Mrs. Frank Drew, Charley Kane, who was a very doleful low comedian, but a great favorite with that odorous sheet the Albany Switch. Dave Anderson was then playing old men; he had been playing old men years before. When he came on to this city—and was a member of Burton’s company in the old Chambers Street The atre, during the run of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”—the manuscript to which I refer was writ ten. The lines are faded now and the paper has that yellowish tint which is a mute witness of its age. It is a series of verses upon Burton’s performance of the character of Bottom—verses, the 'concluding line of each one of which, is a particularly satirical as well as humorous allusion to the public craze to see Burton’s “Bottom.” One of these days, perhaps by the time another Thanksgiving Day shall come around with its feast of turkey and flow of fluidic thankfulness —the editor of the Dispatch may give the verses a place in his poet’s corner. Which reminds me that John F. Poole once had an idea he was a born poet, and that, too, before he made the discovery that a special Providence had intended him to be a concoctor of plays and a man ager. He wrote a poem or two which were pub lished, and a small bundle of idyls and little effu sions of that ilk which, happily for the peace of magazine and newspaper readers, did not get into print. Years ago, when his son Al. was a cherub in short clothes and needed correction, the most awful and painful punishment which John inflicted upon him was to stand him up in a corner and read him HIS POEM ON “ THE SMAMROCK.” Generally two verses reduced the rebellious juven ile Poole to a condition of helpless submission, and the threat of a third verse had all the conquering effect of a bare back application of a lignum vitaa rattan. Poole is now thankful that he abandoned poetry for plays. So is the youthful Poole. “Am I giving thanks ?” said the elder Poole as he stood in a balcony box of his theatre on Thursday night. “Am I ? Look at that audience—a mass of people in gallery, balcony, and orchestra, clear back to the walls. And ask me if I’m not thankfully astonished that such an old-time worn drama as ‘ Monte Cristo ’ should draw such a tre mendous divvy into the box-office every night for the past week. Down stairs was Stetson. He had a package of greenbacked thanks in his pocket half as big as his head. “Proceeds of the Eric Bayley week, ‘ The Colonel,’ eh ?” “Damn ‘The Colonel.* It’s Jimmy O’Neil and Christo that I’m thankful for. Look at this pile, will you ? If Gilsey got his eye on it he’d raise the rent of the Fifth Avenue thirty per cent, forth with.” Dan Frohman over at the Third Avenue Theatre taking an afternoon glance at McKee Rankin’s latest venture, “ NOTICE TO QUIT.” “ Well, the Frohman family is thankful and all right up to the present time. When I refer to the Frohman family I mean Daniel.” He didn’t want to see the drama so much as he did the people on the stage. Somebody had told him that there were several young and vivacious people in it who njigbJ filling foj some of the [Square road companies now perpetuating the existence of “Hazel Kir£&’* £s gipralda,” and other dramatic telicfi df a prehistoric era* “ Bui when the curiain went up, and the wild and weird play unfolded its story, and he saw only such youthful aspirants as Dan Harkins, Theodore Ham ilton, McKee Rankin, J. J. Wallace, Frank Mordaunt and Bijou Heron, he came out into the cool air of the lobby and gently sighed: “ For this relief much thanks. Now is my state the more gracious. The blessing of St. Mallory be upon them for they know not what they do.” And the good Daniel who had come to judgment away over in the wild, and but partially explored wilderness of Third avenue, groped his way toward the west and sought comfort and solace in the pres ence of the profane Dixey Adonis, and the newly made Benedick Donnelly. They were full of thanks and turkey and—such trimmings as were available next door. Townsend Percy returning from next door to the Bijou, was expressing his thankfulness that he escaped from the bar, after paying the price of a glass of char treuse, with enough change out of a dollar bill jo, pay his fare home in a horse car. “ I’m thankful I didn’t take brandy. If I had or dered a pony of that luxury I’d have come out with nothing on but my boots.” His experience was, on this eve of Thanksgiving, in the search for something to be thankful for, not unlike that of three distinguished fellow-citizens of this metropolis, who, in their collective condition as “We, the People,” being in Wallack’s Theatre, fraternized between acts, and, pooling their issues, descended to the saloon “under the corner” lor the purpose of making a combined attack upon the clove department. THIS SALOON IS A “NEW WRINKLE.” Instead of the usual style of barkeeper mixing up and serving out the required temporary cures for thirst, there are three or four more or less pretty barmaids in service. It’s a big thing to catch the mashers, dudes and sports. Especially the baldhead brigade. Well, these three—two of them being dramatic critics and the third a famous criminal lawyer waltzed up to the bar. “ Two mixed ales and one whisky.” A pretty girl “ set ’em up,” and placed the check of the amount in front of the glasses. Only eighty cents for the three drinks. Sadly the festive critic who had invited the party down de posited payment, and, turning to his companions, meekly remarked: “I’m thankful that barmaid only smiled upon me.” “Why ?” “ Because if she’d given me a broad grin the en tire dollar’d have been gone.” No more barmaid and ‘’awfully English, you know” custom in theirn. Seriously, I fancy that not only the actors, but the managers, and all connected with the business of furnishing the public with the supply equal to its demand for amusement, will at the close of the present season have substantial financial reasons for thanksgiving. In the city there is scarcely a theatre which is not now reaping a harvest at least equal to its current expenses, and some of them are rejoicing in the receipt of a nightly income which leaves them an ample surplus of profit. And so, let the round of Thanksgiving extend far into the next year, bearing with it a joyous memory of merry Christmas and a happy New Year. “Abel,” But Not Willing.— John Abel, an English musician of the time of Charles IL, gifted with a voice of the most remarkable beauty and strength, was one of the chief singers of the Royal Chapel. In 1688 he was exiled from England on account of his religion. In his wan derings he arrived at Warsaw, and was sent for by the King of Poland, who wished to hear him sing. Abel excused himself under pretense of a cold. On this answer being made known to his majesty, a peremptory order was dispatched to the unwilling musician to repair instantly to the court. As soon as he appeared, he was led into a vast hall round which was a gallery in which were the king and a numerous company of courtiers and ladies. Abel was placed in an arm chair, which by means of ropes and pulleys was drawn up several feet from the ground, to the great astonishment of the ca tarrh-afflicted singer; but this astonishment was quickly changed into terror when he saw a huge and savage bear let loose into the hall. The choice was then given him either to be let down unon the floor to try conclusions with the shaggy intruder, or to gratify the king and court by the exertion of his vocal powers. Without hesitation, he chose the latter alternative, and, it is said, was never known to sing with a stronger vibration of tone, or a voice so perfectly clear and free from all symptoms of cold and fioarsecess, NEW NOVEMBER 30, 1884. TIBER-CAI The Crimes Caused by Her Earlier Career of Vice. Cruel Suffocation of a Mangled and Help less Partner. THE AVENGING GHOST. HUGH BBADY’S LAST DEBAUCH. HOIST BY HIS OWN PETARD. In the Spring of 1868, as early as it was pos sible to work in the mountains, two men named Charles Wilkins and Hugh Brady, began the devel opement of a claim they had staked out the Fall be fore in Perro Canon, about eleven miles back of Georgetown, Colorado. They had been for several years partners in mine prospecting, and, consider ing what a lottery that business is, had done well, particularly during the preceding year. Each had several thousand dollars on deposit in trusted store keepers’ hands in Denver, and when the Winter of ’67-8 set in, and drove them out of the mountains, Wilkins felt himself rich enough to go to Ohio, where he had left his wife Jennie, at her parents, near Gallipolis, some three years before, and bring her out to Colorado. There is much reason to believe that in her hus band’s long absence Jennie had learned to do WHAT GOOD WIVES NEVER SHOULD, but he knowing nothing of that, was just as happy as if nothing of the sort had occurred, and when he was once more on the scene, she gave him no cause for suspicion. When they went to Denver, to await the opening of Spring, she was much pleased with the novelty of the active bustling life present ed to her in the frontier city, and, Charles being with her pretty much all the time, behaved herself irreproachably. As soon as they could venture out through the snow that still lay deep in the gorges and Canons, Wilkins and Brady went to their claim to erect a log cabin for their occupancy while developing the mine, that, from the surface indications, they had reason to believe would be the luckiest of their dis coveries. During the three weeks that inconstant Jennie was left in Denver, she managed to strike up AN INTIMACY WITH A GOOD-LOOKING GAM BLER, named Dan Farrelly, but when her “darling Char ley” again came to the front, Dan quietly stepped out of sight, and she neglected to mention that she had ever known of his existence. Wilkins’ stay in Denver, upon his return there for his wife, was limited to a couple of days, in which he was constantly busy buying provisions, tools and mining materials, so that not even the malicious chance, that sometimes breathes strange knowledge to husbands ears, gave him any hint about Jennie’s (conduct with Dan Farrelly, which, by the way, had been no secret among the friends of the latter. Jennie was soon jyeary of and disgusted with the lonely life of the mountains. All that the two men could do to make her home comfortable had been done. Their cabin, though a rude construction of logs, bad a flooring of split logs and two small win dows, in which oiled muslin replaced panes of glass. There was a fine large fire-place, and though the water sometimes rolled in torrents down the mountain side, the cabin as aIw . T , ’l7 for it was raised on “under-pinning full three feet from the ground, and Jennie was always dry and warm. Jennie was much too warm. It was her nature to be so; And, that she never saw in that secluded spot any other man than Charley and Hugh; that they were always away at work except at meal times and night, when both were too tired to talk, and that, do what she would, she could not engage Hugh in a flirtation—if nothing more—all these things exasperated her and made an almost unbear able burden of each long weary day. SHE MADE ROGUISH EYES AT HUGH, pressed his hand, took occasion to show her ankles to him, and made advances to him in the many se ductive ways that a woman so disposed knows how to employ, but without eliciting from him any sat isfactory response. He had enough rough loyalty to look upon her as his partner’s wife, a good woman yet, so far as he knew—though a little foolish in her behavior—and to hold her sacred. But, for all that, she had kindled in him, all too successfully, the fires of desire, and they burned much more brightly than she had any idea of, so well did he hide their glow. The partners found their progress toward the cen tre of the earth delayed by the excessive hardness and toughness of the rock they had to penetrate, but they had such good encouragement from the look of what promised to be a true fissure vein in their discovery, that they were impatient to hasten their progress, confident that fortune was but a few feet, or yards, further down. August came, and after numerous consultations, they agreed that in order to complete their development as far as desi rable that season, they would have to employ more powerful explosives than the common black powder they had until then employed. Giant powder was resolved upon, and Hugh undertook the task of going down to Denver to procure fifty pounds of it. He was gone five days, yet he had been as expedi tious as he could. He only allowed himself one night’s spree. During that night he learned what Charles Wilkins had never found out about Jennie. Somebody told him all about her conduct with Dan Farrelly. As he rode baek the long silent road to his mining camp, towing behind him a mule, bear ing that dangerous cargo of giant powder, Hugh REVOLVED IN HIS MIND NEW IDEAS about Jennie. He no longer thought of her as his partner’s wife, but simply as a woman (probably not a wife at all) whom others had enjoyed—and why might not he as well as anybody else, particularly since she so clearly invited him ? the tempter whis pered. The night of his return to the camp Hugh seized an opportunity to meet Jennie outside the house, while her husband was withifi, and without a word of preface or preliminary, strained her to his breast and kissed her passionately. Her natural feminine disposition to coquettry prompted Jennie, notwith standing the proceeding met with her entire appro bation, to assume a tone of indignant surprise in the exclamation : “Why, Mr. Brady ! What do you mean !” “I mean to be to you what Dan Farrelly was,” was the man’s blunt response. “ Hush I Charley <ill hear you,” was all the really-startled woman could reply. She neither questioned what or how he know, nor sought to protest her innocence. That an understanding in accord with her guilty desires existed, by whatever means, seemed to satisfy her. From the next day the guilty intimacy between Jennie and Hugh began and continued. She exer cised an influence over him that seemed to turn his brain. He thought of her every moment of consciousness, waking and sleeping, and soon found -himself almost maddened by the jealous thought that it was in Charles’s arms, instead of his, that she slept at night. HIS PASSION FOR THE ENCHANTRESS tortured his to frenzy, so that at times it was as much as he could do to restrain himself from kill ing the totally unsuspecting husband in cold blood. He said as much to Jennie, and she, having a much cooler brain, pointed out to him that such a deed, instead of putting him in undisputed and permanent possession of her, would be likely to separate them forever, as he could hardly ho’pe to escape hanging for its perpetration. That con sideration restrained him from open violence, but the idea of murder having once entered his head, stuck there obstinately, and the only change effected was in the contemplated mode of its perpetration, his constant thought now being how to get rid of his partner in some secret or apparently accidental way that would turn all suspicion away from him. At feis yastigation, Jennie became urgent for the Fearless and Independent. construction of some shelves and a sort- of box in one corner of the cabin. “ Why should I have shelves ? I don’t want ’em,” Jennie protested. “Nover mind; do as I tell you. You say that you want ’em, and I’ll offer to fix ’em. Leave the rest to me.” Jennie did as she was told by her paramour, and it was easily arranged that while Charles was going on with certain work in the shaft that one man could do alone, Hugh should make the shelving de manded by Jennie’s apparent whim. Hugh did the job with great rapidity, managing to leave himself time enough to do some strange work to one of the “punshons” or split slabs constituting the floor. He took up one of those slabs, fastneed it upon its edge, and with his sharp ax dress down the under side of one end. Then he “juggled out” a piece near the opposite end of the under side, so that the slab, when resting upon the middle log under the centre of the floor, would balance very neatly. Fi nally, he put beneath the dressed-off end of the slab a wedge that just raised its upper surface to a level. Jennie viewed his preparations of the slab with undisguised astonishment. It seemed to her that he could occupy his spare time much better in her arms. “ What does it all mean ?” she asked. “No odds what. But, remember, when you see me go out of the cabin of an evening, and turn my hat around slow on my head once or twice, as if I couldn’t get the right side of it foremost like, that wlil be a good time for you to follow me out as soon as you can. on whatever pretence you can find, and get away from the cabin as far as you can, and as quick as you can, for a few minutes. Don’t forget what I tell you, for this means business.” Jennie, with mingled awe and curiosity, prom ised to do exactly as she was told. Three nights afterward, when Wilkins, after supper, had just stepped our of the cabin door to smoke his evening pipe in the open air, Brady hurriedly whispered to Jennie: “ To-night, when we come in together, I’ll go out again pretty soon, and as I go I’ll turn my hat on my head. Do you remember what that means ?” “ That I am to follow you immediately.” ‘•Yes, and run until you are past the angle of the rocks beyond the shaft. Then wait there for me.” With his last words he passed out into the gather ing darkness. Charley was no where in sight. He sat down on a rock, lighted his pipe, and waited in nervous expectancy for bis partner’s return. Evening had become night, and he found himself wondering anxiously what had become of Charley, when suddenly he heard A YELL OF FRIGHT, then a distant noise as of rocks rolling down the mountain side—afterward only silence. Procuring a lantern from the cabin, he went in the direction whence the sounds had come. After long search he found poor Wilkins at the bottom of a steep incline, with a sheer fall of some twenty feet in the middle of it, down which the unfortunate man had fallen, and rolled more than a hundred feet. Hugh subsequently learned that Charley had taken a stroll, been frightened by a sudden meeting with a bear, and had started to run home, but his footing on a loose rock proving treacherous, he went plunging headlong down the mountain side. Both his arms, one leg and two ribs were broken. He also had some ugly cuts on his head. Still he was fully conscious, and bore with much fortitude the pain he had to endure in the long and difficult task, eventually accomplished by Hugh and Jennie, of getting him back to the cabin and into bed. more thought of Brady’s turning his hat that night , While Jennie watched beside her up husband, Hugh rode off on the miila Id Georgetown and by daylight returned, bringing with him a young doctor named Hertig, who had recently set tled in the town. The doctor, after a long and care ful examination, said that Wilkins, though very severely injured, might recover—provided inflam mation did not set in from the broken ribs and other supposable internal injuries. Then he set the bones as well as he could And went away. The next day he came again, and took a still mere hopeful view of the patient’s situation. He was now sure that Wilkins would get well—if fever did not set in. “ How long wiil he be in danger of fever?” asked Hugh. “For nine days,” replied the doctor, who had some very old German notions in medicine. The third day WILKINS SEEMED FEVERISH. Hugh had surreptitiously given him some whisky against the doctor’s explicit instructions, and Doc tor Hertig looked grave. “ Is the fever dangerous ?” asked Jennie. “ It might increase so as to close up his lungs and kill him in a few hours,”, answered the doctor, add ing: “ Your husband is in very great danger.” Yes. He was in even much greater danger than the doctor had any idea of. Late that evening Charley sank into an uneasy doze. Hugh sat by the bedside, moodily regarding him. Jennie lay asleep upon a bench near the fire place. The only sound was Charley’s labored breath ing. Hugh arose, walked noiselessly across the room to where some towels hung upon a rack, selected one, saturated it with water, folded it to a pad a little larger than his hand, and returned to the bedside. A few moments later Jennie was awakened by the sound of a struggle, and sitting up on the bench saw, with fear-dilated eyes, that Hugh was making sure against her husband’s recovery. With one powerful hand he held down the poor, helpless, mangled wretch, and with the other tightly pressed the wet towel over his mouth and nose. Horror and fear seemed to freeze her blood. She sat silent and motionless as a stone. In a few moments the unequal contest was over, CHARLES WILKINS WAS DEAD. Then Hugh turned his to Jennie, and swore that he would kill her, then and there, if she did not at once take an oath that she would never betray the murder. Trembling with fear she took the oath glibly. The next morning Dr. Hertig came, learned that his patient was dead, said he was not surprised, took his fee and went away. Two miners, who were sinking a shaft a little dis tance away, came over and helped to bury Wilkins’s body, suspecting nothing wrong, and there seemed to be an end of the affair. But it was not. It was rather the beginning of the end. Hugh imagined himself haunted by the ghost of his dead partner, and, to give himself ficti tious courage to endure the horrible visitations that his fevered fancy engendered, took to drinking heavily. He got his whisky by the keg from George town, and was never really sober. He was on the verge of delirium tremens. One of his most unpleasant fancies, so far as Jen nie was concerned, was that since his death Wilkins had been made fully acquainted with his wife’s un faithfulness and compelled him to punish her by beating. After he had hammered her soundly, the ghost of his partner would reward him by not ap pearing for several hours. Poor Jennie began to fear, and with justice, that eventually Hugh would beat her to death if she remained in his power. One day, when Hugh came home from George town at nightfall, with a kegful of whisky, and more than half full of that seductive fluid, he found the fire out on the hearth and the cabin dark and empty. JENNIE HAD FLED. He raved about the mountainside all night, hunt ing her and trying to escape the ghost that haunted him. In the morning he learned from one of the miners who had helped him bury his partner, that Jennie had been seen the afternoon before seated on the crupper of a horse, behind Dan Farrelly, on the road to Denver. Jealousy and rage almost maddened him. He had not the courage to follow and claim her. Farrelly, he knew, was a desperado, who would not hesitate to shoot him at sight, and Jennie might, if sore pressed by him, tell what she knew of the murder and cause him to be hanged. Either consideration was enough to deter him from pursuit, He turned back to the lonely cabin and drank whisky until insensible. For two or three days he kept his spree up, until the delirium that had been threatening him for some time was fully developed. He was a madman, crazed by whisky. In this con dition his brain was occupied by a strange in dustry. Turning up the “punshon” that he had fixed in Jennie’s presence, he exposed to view some curious additions he had made upon its under side since she had seen his first work upon it. Fastened to a screw-eye near its tnick end was a strong fishing line that ran through another screw-eye on the log beneath, and thence was carried down to one end of a small lever fixed on the log just before the hearth, under the thin end of the “punshon.” The lever increased te four inches, the one-inch pull that would have been given by tipping the “punshon.” From it another lino, a short one, ran to the trigger of a gunlock that was fastened to a sapling stump under the floor. With an air of GREAT MYSTERY AND SECRECY, he examined the fittings of his queer contrivance and turned the “ punshon” into place. Then he went out to where he and his partner had cached their giant powder, near the now neglected shaft, and brought back to the cabin the can containing it. There were still twenty or twenty-five pounds of the terrible explosive. With it and a lantern, he crawled under the cabin floor, and for a time busied himself arranging the can so that the fall of the hammer would explode a percussion primer into the powder. Last of all, he pulled out the wedges from under the thin end of the “ punshon,” and then returned to the cabin. He imagined alone, waiting for the return of his partner, whoso death he had temporarily forgotten. “Ha! Let him come,” he exclaimed gleefully, rubbing his hands. “I’ve got it all fixed for him. He shall blow himself up, and then Jennie will be mine ! Only mine ! Aha ! Won’t I send him high ! And it’ll be all an accident! Ha !ha !’* Again and again he drank huge gulps of the fiery liquor, and his madness increased. He raved, sang and danced, springing with agile steps over and over again, the trap punshon [in the middle of the floor. It seemed to fascinate him, and he howled with glee over the ingenuity of his device. “Let him come and take his seat,” he shouted, “and it’s on a cloud he’ll find it!” Suddenly he stopped with a shriek of terror, be fore the cabin door, as the wind blew it slowly open. His guilty mind pictured before him at the threshold THE GHOST OF (HIS MURDERED PARTNER. His hair stood up, his eyes were wildly staring, his knees trembled, and his parched tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. Slowly he tottered back ward-one step—two—three—and then there was a terrific explosion that hurled the cabin, and all it contained up in a belching mass of [flame like that from a volcano’s mouth. Then, all was darkness, while the reverberating echoes of the mountains carried afar the roar. The miners, who came over early the next morn ing to learn the cause of the explosion, found only a big hole in the ground where the cabin had stood, and some splintered logs, but not a trace of Hugh Brady. Jennie drifted off from one mining camp to an other, when Dan Farrelly deserted her, as he did after a few months, and gained an evil notoriety under the nickname of “ Tiger Cat Jennie,” as one of the most desperate and abandoned of the vile class to which she sank. TBEWBfISTE!!. How the Pious Aurelia Cleap.sd the Wicked Colette Out. VIRTUE ITS OWN"REWARD. Purity which did not Disdain co Profit by Vice. '-£•—” - • v* ■#* ■ Colette Hoguet was the most charming madcap in Paris. She loved for pleasure and drank champagne to drown the blues. Her extravagance was as boundless as her heart was good, but she had and beauty to sustain them with. If her reckless ness was a proverb to fast Paris she had a right to indulge, for she paid fo; it, she HveSlike the little prlneeSS oFa Talty lale in her little hotel near the old Comedy Theatre, her every wish gratified at her call, her every, breath drawn in such luxury as no emperor’s daughter would have disdained. But it cost a great deal of money, and the gold which her lovers rolled into Colette’s lap vanished almost before she touched it. Her cooks and her butlers grew rich every year, while she was never by any accident OUT OF DEBT. One morning when, rubbing her sleepy eyes as she sat on the edge of her bed, she sought with her bare feet the little slippers which were buried in the fur of the great tiger-skin rug, her maid entered the chamber. “There is a lady to see madame,” she an nounced. “Alady! Whom?” “ She says she is madame’s sister,” replied the maid with a grin. Colette bounded out of bed and then began to tremble. Her sister ! Her pious, proper and prud ish sister Aurelie here ! The poor little grasshop per felt her blood chill as she thought of this ant of the family, this pale-faced, cold-eyed girl who never did wrong and who had as little untruth in her heart as she had in her face. What did she want here? This girl who went to confession every day and never missed a service, must have some pur pose in venturing into the palace of sin in which her sister had exercised her wild and feverish em pire. Colette was not kept long in doubt as to the purj pose of her sister's visit. When she had slipped into a wrapper and buried the odds and ends which cumbered the room out of sight. Mlle. Aurelie was admitted. The sight of her in the door made poor Colette shiver. What reproaches were to overwhelm her now? But no less to her amazement than relief, Aurelie did not COME TO CURSE HER. Tall, handsome, austere in expression as well as in her sombre dress, her elder sister advanced upon her. Colette was almost on the eve of making a dive under the bed when Aurelie caught her hand. “You poor little fool,” she said gently. “Are you afraid of me ? Ido not come here to make re proaches. “Indeed,” responded Colette, with a -sigh of relief. “No indeed. What good would they do you or me ?” “They would certainly do me none.” “ What is done is done. You have entered upon this life and must continue it. Therefore, make the best of it while you can.” Colette began to pinch herself to discover if she was awake. She soon discovered that she was. Her sister went on to say that, while she viewed her wild course with sorrow she also viewed it with appre hension. “You are squandering your youth as well as your wealth,” she said. “If you must lead this life, at least lay up something so that you will not DIE IN MISERY. You need order and good sense in this house, and I have come to put them at your service. If I can not save you from sin I can at least save you from poverty.” Colette listened stupefied. But she knew her sister to be a first class economist and woman of business, and was only too happy to instal her as housekeeper. It never entered her unselfish little heatr to suspect that any but sisterly motives impelled the pious Aurelie to develop this interest in her. “ She is a dear good soul,” she used to say to her self, “If she only was not so strict.” For four years the good Aurelie lived with the wicked Colette. She never shared the abominable life of her sister; was never seen at the Bois, the OFFICE, NO. 11 FRANKFORT BT. theatre, the ball. She never met any of the visitors to the house, and came and went alone. The room she slept in was like a nun’s cell, and she took all of her meals there. In one corner was a praying desk, and on the walls pictures of the saints. Every morning she went to mass. She even paid a certain sum for board and lodgings, or rather allowed it on the strictly kept books, because her moral naturo revolted at the idea of her profiting by COLETTE’S TAINTED GOLD. But she ran the house like clockwork. She intro duced reforms and put an end to pilferings. The servants were regularly paid, the bills of tradesmen settled on time, the dinners better cooked, better served, and cheaper. In the account book which she kept she set down everything, and once a week she would read off the balance sheet to Colette and make her flighty little head ache. She took all of Colette’s money and gave her an allowance—quite a liberal one, it is true—but by no means extravagant. Colette, afraid of this terrible sister, who had sacri ficed so much for her, borrowed from her friends right and left to supply the wants of her extrava gant taste. And once a week Aurelie went to the savings bank and made a deposit in her own name. The four years found Colette heartily tired of her pious sister and her economies. She was by no means disagreeably surprised, therefore, when Aure lie remarked to her one day: “ Well, little one, I have had enough of this. I must retire. This life is too wild for me. It is against my nature.” “It is true,” said Colette. “You do not fit here, dear sister, and if you must go ” “Oh,” replied Aurelie, “I really must. But I have, at least, put your house in order and taught you « HABITS OF ECONOMY. The sisters embraced. “ But,” demanded Colette, “ where’s the money ?” “ Money !” repeated Aurelie. “ What money ?’* “ The money you saved.” “ Pooh, pooh I” said her sister. “How could I save money in such a house? Why if it had not been for me you would have been sold out for debt long ago. As it is 1 leave you with a clean slate.” Poor Colette knew she had been outrageously robbed by her wise virgin sister, but she did not make a scene. Her heart was too good for that. Aurelie departed, and a month later married a head clerk in a government office, to whom she brought a fortune of a hundred thousand francs—the econo mies of poor Colette’s housekeeping, on which the pious Aurelie saw no stain now that they were her own. Thanks to her providence, and the shrewd invest ments of her husband, they live in their own house and are bringing up a family in the path of purity and honor. Their eldest son is quite a big follow now—a lively lout of a fellow, who is up to any escapade, his mother proudly informs her friends. And then she tells in a whisper how, the other evening, returning from a visit to some friend’s house, young Phillips pelted with mud one of those horrible low street-walkers who infest the pavement after dark and seek for prey among the petty clerks and workingmen—pelted the poor creature till she took to flight, sobbing and scream ing with rage and with her shabby silk dress quite spoiled. Yet they [say there is justice in a Heaven which looks down on Colette Hoguet, being pelted through the streets with mud by her nephew, while her pi ous sister looks on with a complacent smile! GARRISONED BYWOMEN. THE TRAGEDY OF A LITTLE HAMLET IN THE CAR PATgI&N KILLS. (Letter in the Philadelphia Press.) A quiet little valley, shut in on every side by dark hills; a long, low, many windowed building oe . low, with red* an d walls, past which— barely visible at this bight—curve the slender iron threads of the railway; a painted palisade across the road about one hundred yards beyond it, marking the point where the Austrian Empire ends and the Principality of Roumania commences; a few tiny cottages a little further down th/valley (each en cireled by its owil pool ol Jlth*, which are the sole rsj>r&s6rntatives of the “Predeal” that makes such a figure’fn the local magifc Probably no ons foreigner in a hundred has ever heard of *’ne name of Predeal, but among the native population it has gained an imperishable re taown from the memory of a great crime and a fear ful tragedy. When the armies of Russia came swarming through the Carpathian passes in 1849 to crush by sheer weight of numbers the gallant Hun garians whose valor had swept away the blustering tyranny of Austria like chaff before the whirlwind, it was by the way of Predeal and the Tomos Gorge that the destroyers advanced upon the doomed town called Kezdi Vasarhely. But even these grim soldiers were chilled with a nameless horror at the first sight of the town. Not a living soul was to be seen. Every house was fast shut and barred, and the only sound heard was the dismal toll of the church bell, which seemed to be lamenting over the dead. And well it might, for every man of the population had fallen in the lost battle of that morning, and the houses were garrisoned only by women and children, who had sworn not to survive the ruin of their country. Shaking off their first terror, the soldiers began to force the doors of the nearest houses, and the final tragedy began. Every house became a fortress, from which stones, boiling oil and scalding water rained down upon the assailants, heaping the for saken streets with the dying and the dead. Savage yells, shrieks of anguish and the ceaseless crackle of musketry filled the outer air, while the mourn ful bell boomed drearily through the uproar; but those within fought in stern silence, neither giving nor asking mercy. Till nightfall this superhuman combat waged, and then the wearied slayers began to hope that their work was done. But just then a shower of firebands, cast from the church tower overhead by the crippled boy who had tolled the death-knell, fired the dry roofs of the houses, and the whole town was soon one red and roaring blaze, in which victors and vanquished perished together. RUM’S WORK A WIFE’S THREE YEARS OF SI LENT SUFFERING. Edward J. Dowling, aged twenty-nine, who de scribed himself as a liquor dealer, was charged with stabbing his wife Mary E. Dowling. From appear ances they seemed to be in comfortable circum stances. She said she was about to send her boy on a message when the father came in out of temper, and ordered him out ol the house. She went be tween them, and he sprang at her. At the time she did not know he had any thing in his hand, but it seems he had a knife, and when she raised her hand to ward of the blow, she was stabbed in the arm. Not until she saw the blood dripping down was she aware that she had been stabbed. “ What is his business ?” asked Justice Patterson. “ He has done nothing in three years, and the last six months he has been continually under the influence of liquor. He would come in at three and four o'clock in the morning, and give nothing but abuse. I have borne it quietly; I did not wish the public to know it.” “ How could she know I stabbed her when it was in the dark ?” said the man. “ The doctor said it was an inch and a half deep,” said the woman. “ Have you anything further to say ?” asked the Justice. “ I went home last evening and sent the boy on an errand. He did not answer. I went to slap him, and she came between us.” “ You had a dispute ? Two thousand dollars to answer,” said the Justice. By the time he is tried the rum will be pretty well out of him, when he will keenly feel his situa tion. ] If it had been the wife instead of the man, he would have had her up on the Island as a common ’ drunkard half-a-dozen times, ; PRICE FIVE CENTS, A WINTER NIGHT FOR ME I BY LILY. Bright Summer flies on golden wings To Orient climes away: The linnet now no longer sings On fragrance-breathing spray; lhe fairest flowers have faded all; The sun shines not so fre«; But why should this the heart appal ? The Winter night for me ! The Winter nights—when happy hearts In sacred kindness meet; When each his joyful tale imparts, To make life's cup more sweet; When souls depress’d forget their care,. And gladness circles free; When courtiers sit by ladies fair — The Winter nights for me 1 Give me the fairy-footed hall. Where lovers’ hearts best free; I’ll give you Summer nights and all— The Winter nights for me ! HI aortic St ori), JIM’S SWEETHEART BY A. I. B. CHAPTER I. “ I WILL TAKE CARB OB TOUR CHILD.” The mince pies are almost baked, and such & fragrant spicy odor of puff paste and juicy raisins arises from the oven that even the plump and well-trained cat gives a selfisatisfiedf purr. It is Christmas Eve, and Miss Smith, the doctor’s sister, has made hers herself, and every now and then peeps into the oven with an anxious face. Such a bright cosy little kitchen it is, red-flagged and white-walled, and with coppers and tins shining with a marvelous brightness that reflects everything within rangef It is between five and six o’clock; the doctor will be home directly, and his tea must ba ready, for Miss Smith is a good housekeeper. She toasts the muffins and her own cheeks at the same time, and presently a brace of fat woodcock are simmering and seething, their savory odor mingling with that of the mines pies. In the trim little parlor the red curtains ara closely drawn, and the round table laid for two. The whole scene is one of snug comfort and suggestive of well-ordered every day life. Within the cottage all is warmth and light and homeliness. Outside the snow is falling thick: and fast; it is already up to the tops of tha gooseberry bushes in the garden, and beyond, the open country lies ghostly and white in its spotless robe. Mies Smith, who places no faith in the culin ary powers of her handmaiden, is superintend ing the woodcock herself, and does not notice a human face pressed against the panes of tha kitchen window, and looking in with wistful hungry eyes. Jane, the handmaiden, gives a W "Oh, Miss Anne, some e uo ia 'i ooliing in J the window 1” ••Close the shutters!” orders Miss Anne, without turning round. And accordingly tha shutters are slammed in the face of tha , stranger. "■ It is cold and bleak outside, and the slight . poor looking figure rises from the low window sill, and. with a sob, the woman wraps her cloak mor’ '' ,oi W round h?r, hugging some thing to her breast, and drag? fooG, steps to the door. A faint, timid knock disturbs Miss Smith! again. “Go and see who it is, Jane; but put tha chain up first.” Jane returns almost immediately. “ Ob, Miss, it’s a poor woman, and she has a baby; and she is ill, she says, and does not know where to go !” Jane’s voice is wistful; but Miss Smith is ac«, customed to deal with tramps of every kind. “Tell her to go to the work-house, and don’6- stand arguing with her. I will not have peopla of that kind encouraged.” It is a very white, youthful face that listens with a look of despair to Jane’s message. Tha woman presses one hand against the door, and’ looks in with wild anguish-fillod eyes. “ For Heaven’s sake, let me in; I cannot wall* any farther 1” ’ Jane pushes the door closer, without speak ing. The snow is drifting in on to the carpet*; and flying in feathery flakes down the passage, f “Then take my baby!” wails the broken voice. “I cannot carry her any longer; I—l, am dying, I think.” “Jane,” calls Miss Smith, angrily, feeling thai keen, snow-iaden air that is whistling through the house, “ come in directly I” j The door slams. There is a sound of si woman sobbing; and then Jane, peeping out of the window, sees a figure vanishing in tha gloom. “ Poor creaturel” she says, sympathetically. “Sure this is no night to turn a dog out of doors, leave alone a Christian and a new-born baby in her arms 1” Her mistress gives her a smart lecture on the. impropriety of gossiping at the door and listen ing to beggars’ stories. Then the doctor ar rives, and the incident is forgotten. Doctor James Smith is not a rising man : he' is only the dispensary doctor, and has hardly any practice beside. But he and bls sister'' manage to live very comfortably on a small in come in a small cottage, and arc happy in theiis. own way. He is tall, bony and angular, with, a rugged, ugly face and kind, bright eyes children and animals turn to him as instinctively, as they turn away from his sister, who, soma five years his senior, is rather sour and cross, and generally old-maidish in her ways. “ What a night 1” he says, as Jane carries ofT his overcoat and proceeds to bring in the tea. and other things, followed by the cat with tail erect, evidently confident that his turn will soon come to partake of a portion of thosa most succulent birds now lying brown and juicy on hot toast. “ I have brought you a Christmas box, Anno,” the doctor remarks, cheerily, as he stands before the fire ; and, fumbling in his pocket, he produces at last a little box, on open-, ing which a pair of silver ear-rings are dis played, nestling in cotton wool. Miss Smith takes the box without any signs of pleasure. “ Thank you, Jim; but I am sorry you did not get a brooch. I have ear-rings.” If he is disappointed at the reception of his present he does not show it, and presently agrees quite cheerfully to change the ear-rings for a brooch. “Or keep them, and I will get the brooch as well,” he suggests kindly. And then they have tea together, and if his broad forehead is a little clouded as his sister details all the household worries for his benefit* she does not notice it.