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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, March 15, 1885, Image 1

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VOL. XL-NO. 22.
Entered at the Post Office at New York,
N. ¥., as Second Gass Matter.
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 careful 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.
Post Office Box No. 1775.
Tire *‘ Footle Drama”—A Murderous Man
ot Letters—The Humbug of Romance—
Epileptic Agony—A Graveyard De
lirium—A Drama 'With a Bone as
its Motive—Miss Terry and a
•Picturesque Setting —** He’s
Doing the Best he Can.”
In the form 6f what the playbills modestly term
’«a poetic drama” a mournfully flattering estimate
<of the character of a murderer, an adulterer, robber,
liar, and scholastic pedant named Eugene Aram,
was made public for the first time upon the local
Hage on Monday evening’ last at the Star Theatre.
A work bearing the same title, not •• poetic,” but
k mixture of rampant melo-drama and low comedy,
written by an uninspired playwright of the name
* >f C. W. Taylor, was given its initial performance
an the stage of the Old Bowery Theatre, on the
evening of June 19th, 1832, under the management
of Mr. Thomas Hamblin.
The lamented Bibliomaniacal murderer Aram,
' was represented by Mr. John R. Scott. In the cast
were also dear old economic Tom Hadaway and the
bibulous “ Bill Gates” who were great favorites in
their day and generation.
The story of Eugene Aram is familiar to many;
cared for by few. Such interest as it had for the
’ public, ago; was created by the romance of
gir Edward Bulwer Lytton.
The bare facts of the criminal’s career are faith
fully recorded in “The Newgate Calender,” by the
attorneys Andrew Knapp and William Baldwin.
’These facts, with something of verbal polishing,
were related, also, as a part of a very long and
• elaborate criticism of Mr. Wills’s work and Mr. Ir
*• ving’s performance in the columns of a daily jour-
■ nal of Tuesday morning last.
I have yet to discover any poetic element in the
< crime of murder. There is no poetry in assassina
tion. I see nothing poetic in the nature of a ruffian
•who strikes his victim to the earth with a club,
* etabs him to the heart with a knife, or brings him
■ to his death by perforating his brain with a bullet.
Eugene Aram, by his own confession, was
One of these, his boon compan-ion, whom he knew
; to be a common ruffian, was Richard Houseman.
With him Aram deliberately concocted a scheme to
Incite one Daniel Clarke, a shoemaker of Knares
♦borougb, who had just married a woman of good
> .family, whom he reporte 1 as “ entitled to a fortune
■which she would soon receive,” to raise all the
money he could, and thus “ make an ostentatious
. show of his riches, so as to induce the wife’s rela
: tions to give her her inheritance at once.”
■ Clarke yielded to their entreaties. He borrowed
. and bought on credit a large quantity of silver
: plate, jewels,, watches, rings, and other valuables.
Then this intellectual, scholarly, and refined Eugene
Aram, and his vulgar pal. Houseman, having thus
. made a scoundrel out of the misguided shoemaker,
lured him out of the town into a field near St. Rob
ert’s cave, where Aram deliberately knocked him on
: theffiead with a bludgeon, robbed him of his ill-got
i ten gains, and buried his body.
And the schoolmaster. Aram was abroad in Knares
i borough .no more for fourteen years.
Now,.- what an inspiring theme for the poetic
• Wills. What a heroic ideal for the dramatist to
glorify, with the flowers of rhetoric 1
< Thus, Aram as a murderer. Now as an adulterer.
:Jle was married to an amiable and loving woman,
> he.made irritable and petulant by his ill na
tiure and.surly moods. At the same time this hypo
crite, whom the novelist and the poet would have
i.ns believe, wao a refined and Christianly bookworm
intimate, with another woman who was the
fSßif©; of a day. laborer. Truly,
v3£hen he had committed the murder he fled to
Shandon and abandoned his wife forever. This was,
poetic impulse. When, fourteen years
,he was arrested at Lynn, in Norfolk, he was
j faring.with still another woman, who then was sup
y <NrC(i io be hiSzWife. Meanwhile, his real wife, in
E Barepborough,. the bones of iiis victim,
Cl tatk-e,,.wexe accidentally unearthed, came forward
au , that aim. believed her husband was the
mu tdere.r.
He kwras a liar,. an<V2herefore, worse than a thief,
and j <-tSpn Houseman, whe had ig
norai. tw the nature of an animal as something
of an < SEWW/or his rascality. Aram proved him
uelf tin iMrUastofliars,:for in the confession be made
just pi fc* 1 ’ 1118 ax,ecw,t*on, he solemnly averred
that he VHad-Clarke because ho suspected ijim of
“having HPIWJU.WIUI with his (Aram’s)
wile; that Ww<WA3 : persuaded at the time tlu,t he
did right, Uutjthai since bethought it wrong.”
So this w poetic .flower, in order tckion
ceal the utt< * of,hU' murderous act, thus,
in his dying * moments, t tried to befoul the good
name of the « with a
What a hero i: « I®*® liar a«d
cowardly de&m « 101 * virtue, for a■■ po-
otic drama” 1
Compared to t ibsok-reading scoundrel, this
learned hypocrite, ifonAtiian Wjl<L-K’as a saint, Jack
Sheppard an angel, »aud Abe . philossphic Ruloff of
our day an innocent Vanfm
According toalett, vr., .written, by ; .hknself, instead
of being a man whose he.,bad asserted in
the cunningly and al V caafrived.plea which he
made to the court at bi. * “had been honestly
laborious and nights in 'tensely.studjops without a
single deviation from sob. blety,” be stated that he
-'always had found mean.C ito<fitifle th©clamors of
his conscience by applying bottle, diversions,
business or company, som ono,.cometimes
the other.”
So you see by his own ad. WiißSiQns,;this classic
pundit was also a drunkard and‘
It was quite natural that whoiZ face to
the hangman, exclaim: / M l:si6e.botb'God
.and maa are my enemies.”
What an exam<>le£o introduce info the &s
an aid to its and for tlAe psixiflcfttion
of dramatic art!
So much tor the poeti^.Antecedents of <Mr, Wilis'.s
Now for a reference to
Mr. Irving’s representation of *’ tß central figure,
begins at sunset and it dies at It is in
midsummer time, but in the last the atmos
phere— that of’a graveyard—is parti(K^ frigid—
for Mr. Aram. The entire work is a sor? of funeral
sermon, plentifully interpolated with gloomy retro-
tears, groans, wailing and gnashing 01 teeth.
Its argument is as cheerless and dismal and UJi
suggestive of healthy life and humanly reality ab a
wrecked hearse in an abandoned graveyard. The >
dialogue is a mixture of proae and blank verse, The
verse is prosy and the prose blank enough so far as
originality of idea or strength of thought is con
There are sounding phrases and sundry measures
of metaphor here and there, but, in all, the ring of
true poetic feeling is made painfully conspicious by
its absence. There is but little more than a faint
suggestion, one might say no more than a passing
hint, of the story of Eugene Aram.
Which makes its state more gracious in a moral
point Of view.
But what there is of it is by no means creditable
to Aram’s character. In bis anxiety to be truly
poetic, Mr. Wills made the cloak of repentance
which he has thrown over the lugubrious hero too
diaphanous. Entirely too thin. You can see clearly
through its threads of humility and virtuous in
Through it you see that the old leaven of deceit,
fraud and hypocrisy, is still the soul of the man.
Following the course of the play you find him,
knowing himself to be a murderer, liable Rt any
moment to be unmasked and dragged to justice,
and the gallows, throwing the baleful shadow of his
guilty life over the bright and sunny innocence of a
fair young girl who, with his specious eloquence
and pretence of Idve he has beguiled into loving
him. And when the play opens they are on the eve
of being married. That’s where the poetic business
comes in, and the band begins to play.
How lofty and grand is the poesy ot such a union.
A fine beginning for a moral and refined drama,
This old, gray-haired, most grave and specious
wretch—in that quiet village, with a fear of detection
which he calls repentance haunting his soul, and
under the very roof of her father’s house which
shelters him, selfishly seeking his own happiness by
bringing misery, ruin and degradation upon this
trusting girl.
And this is Mr. Wills poetic ideal of a hero, oh ?
This is what one of our leading critics styles “a
noble, tender, and gentle person.” And yet another
one calls “a grand illustration of a man’s power in
conquering himself and living down al«l the baser
part of his nature.”
What a poor old good man—gone wrong 1
In the second act there is nothing of the courage
of the Man in his bravado of the ruffian Houseman
—nothing of daring in his taunts. His action and
speech are only the passing outbursts of despera
tion—the momentary and empty bullying of a cow
ard brought to bay. In real life a fellow like House
man would have caught him by his scholarly threat
and banged his learned old head against the floor.
How long would the burly slugger, Sullivan, listen
to the intellectual argumentative taunting of the
gentle and scholarly Mr. Bergh ?
And when this Eugene Aram of Mr. Wills, at the
close of tne second act, is summoned by Parson
Meadows to follow him out to look upon'the bones
of the murdered Clarke, what does the mental giant
do ? Does he open up a new argument ? Oh, no.
He simply wilts, and gyrates up the stage like a liv
ing skeleton jerked hither and thither against his
will by an attack of epilepsy. And ho-stands alone,
whit® and scared—an angular, trembling old cow
ard—at the back as the curtain goes down.
And your burly 0 unpoetic, ignorant, matter-of-faet
Houseman, who has neither intellectual backing
nor a particle of repentance in hie soul, stands there
sardonically, if not contemptuously, contemplating
the mental and physical collapse of his former pal
in rascality. Hc'i all right. The poetic flies are not
troubling him.
I can tanoy Houseman chuckling, “And the bones
did it all.”
is a long haired, woe begone, God forsaken, hollow
eyed, helpless, lantern-jawed mortal, who seems to
be suffering’with acute dyspepsia in its worst form.
This Eugene Aram enters the scene in the first act
with a whine, and a we’re-all-poor-miserable-crea
tures-expression of face, an upturning of the eyes,
a listless dropping of the arms, and a weak and
ricketty- step.
•• What is this—is it alive?” is the natural ques
tion of those in the audience who have been accus
tomed to witness the dominance of manhood, and
not the eccentricities and mannerism of affectation
in acting.
As you wateh the singular and always angular
and uncouth movements of this strange being, and
listen to his utterances, delivered as they are in
tones, and with a rising and falling, a roughness
and uncertainty of inflection, as if his voice were a
chopped hash of incongruous sounds, as he con
verses with the fair young girl whom he is fondling,
there comes to you a sense of amazement as to what
psychologic spell it is that has charmed her into
loving him.
There is no glittering eye which, fixed upon her,
serpent like, fascinates, and bewilders her sense;
there is.no-line of manly beauty, no grace and fash
ion -of youth, n-o fire of passion,.no physical charm
in this ghastly, thin-faced, uncouth old man to win
either her admiration or retain her love.
There .is no Melnotte in his composition, and this
girl has neither the spirit, the ambition, nor tho ro
mance of a.Pauline.
Mr. Wills has put nothing of tfae poetic in the
speeches of this man; his dialogue with her, where
it is not patched with stilted metaphor; is ol the
common-place, clap-trap quality, and there are no
heroic situations for him in which he can make one
forget his awkwardness.
As Mr. Stephen Blackpool remarked,, in his dying
moments, 4, It’a a’ a muddle.”
Mr. Wills has made a dreary muddle of . hir sub
ject—a muddle of his characters—and left.but two
opportunities for the interpolation of anything
pleasing to the sense of sight.
These were the opportunities for picturesque and
effective scenic netting in the first act, and the op
portunity for Miss Terry to dispel with her presence
and grace the awful dullness and murky gloom of
about as tedious a mass of pointless fialogue as
have been seen in any play upon our stage.
It was a relief to see that the opportunities,-so far
as the scenic artist and.ihe actress were concerned,
were not neglected.
And what a speetacle.was the last act of th-isblank
verse—Eugene Aram.
There he is, lying upon.the stone-slab of an old
tomb, curled up under the ample folds of a black
Even a remorse-stricken tramp, seeking a resting
or hiding-place, away from the farm-yard dogs and
t wayside shot-guns, would not seek such a cheerless
But, mind you, this is the hero of a poetic drama
-y& romantic murderer; a man of strong mental
force and of “ tremendous will-power.”
;Tba.t’s what the critics and panegyrists cf tho
.drama have told me—in type.
And-they are all learned aad most .honorable men.
Jet here he is. At first eovered up and hidden
like .a Icfit of a boy in bed hiding from .spooks.
Then, as if aroused by the twinges qfa stiffening
rhematism. he slowly crawl® up and moans and
groans himself hoarse, alternating between howling
and beseeching, praying, giving <vent ,to a croupy
wheeze, and: twisting and jerking abopt the scene,
and acting<as no human being—poetic murderer or
uupoetio rasqal, weak or strong-minded, under any
circumstances—Given on the scaffold. eonHqr-would
Ho is as pitiable jwd unpoetic as a whipped cpr.
And all this agony, raving and grotesque poster
ing, these antics an<|, spasmodic contortions, are the
result, not of a great .and overwhelming .remorse,
but of this man of “tremendous will-power ” hav
,i£ig caught sight <of a dead man’s bones !
What a motive! It would answer capitally ae the
bat;s of a burlesque. Can
go further in extravagance than this? Even Adonis
Dlxey could not make it more lugubriously ridicu
lous than it {b in its poetic form.
There is something of manhood in the story and
the action of Mathias, in “ The Bells.” There is too
much that is huptanly in the character of Joseph
Lesurques, and a certain grandeur even in the ac
tion and motives of hia -counterpart, Dubosq.
All thcfjg Ijaye and
account for their action. But in the case of Eu
gene Aram it is a marrowless bone which reduces
this schoolmaster, Aram, to tho condition of a driv
eling Imbecile.
The mere sight of such a wan and ghastly peda
gogue would have frightened the children of any
school away to their homes, never to return.
Even the courage of the gamins of the Sixth Ward
would vanish, howling with terror, from his pres
Yet I to regard Mr. Irving’s impersona
tion of Eugene Aram, and Mr.Wille’s “poetic drama”
as works of genius.
While witnessing' this performance on the first
night, I noticed a couple who occupied seats di
rectly in front of me in the next aisle. They were
evidently man and wife.
At the close of the second act she said to him:
My dear, I don’t like this play. There’s nothing
in it.”
“But there’s Irving.”
‘<l don’t like him,” she answered shortly.
“ Well,” said he, “ what do you want—the earth ?
He’s doing the best he can, and what more do you
want, eh?”
There was the whole story in a single sentence.
The remark consoled me. It gave me strength and
courage to resist the inclination which was tortur
ing me to rush out and eat a clove and forget to
come back.
It made me comprehend how ungrateful it would
be to turn my back upon a great actor, a “ marvel
ous expositor of human passions,” who was “doing
the best he could ” to make all tho audience, at
three dollars a head, as well as myself, remember
him and the poetic drama to the end of their lives.
I do not think they will forget this Eugene Aram.
I am sure I will not.
Great afflictions, like rare old jokes, linger long in
the recollection. And the dismal ghost stories we
heard in cur boyhood days still rise.at'times to
haunt the reveries of our waking hours and our
dreams by night.
And Mr. Irving’s Eugene Aram is a ghost story
that will hereafter be included in the category.
OUR Irive iliu IL
The Ninth Regiment—lloxv a Colonel Once
Constituted a Whole Regiment — The
Ninth in Battle—Jim Fisk as a Pup
pet Warrior—The Gorgeous Mil
itary Career'of the General
Bourn of New York.
When the militia of New York city turned out to
receive Kossuth, tho Hungarian patriot, in Decem
ber, 1851, it turned out in great state. As one of the
staff officers rode down the marching line on Broad
•way, he noticed a solitary, and by no means gigan
tic, individual, in the uniform of a colonel,tramping
on foot in the place assigned to one of the regiments.
There was an air of seriousness and profound dig
nity about this person that made his lonely state
even more ridiculous than it was.
“Why, colonel,” said the officer, drawing rein,
“where’s the Ninth ?”
“It is here, sir,” replied the solitary footman, tap
ping himself on the breast.
A trooper was dismounted, and the colonel who
represented his whole regiment was given a place
on the staff for the reception. It was a fact that, at
this time* all that was left of the Ninth Regiment—
which had been organized some years before—was
its commanding officer.
is one of many humorous episodes. It originally
consisted of some companies of young Americans
and Irishmen, who were better social companions
than soldiers. They furnished their own uniforms,
by wearing whatever they chose, and presented a
motley appearance on parade. Their organization
was so loose and ineffective that the best members
were gradually absorbed by other regiments, until
in time the Ninth existed only in name.
In June 1859, however, the Ninth was vigorously
reorganized, and within a year was one of the best
drilled, strongest and most efficient regiments in
our militia, when the war broke out and the call for
men to do their duty by their country came, the
response of the young regiment was prompt.
While-.other regiments were enlisting for three
months the Ninth went to the front for as many
years, in June 1861.
The Ninth sniffed the exhilarating vapors of battle
It fought in every campaign in Virginia for three
years, and its riven and tattered battle flag sparkles
with the names of Harper’s Ferry, Cedar Mountain,
Rapidan Station, Thoroughfare Gap, the Second
Bull Run, Chantilly, South Mountain, Antietam,
Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, Wil
derness, Laurel Hill, Spottsylvania, and Coal Har
bor. There are a hundred minor engagements and
a long list of heroic exploits to the credit of the
regiment and its members as individuals beside.
Throughout its campaigns its record was one of
unbroken honor, and one which probably the Sixty
ninth, alone rivals. It had, indeed, some of the best
fighting blood of the country in its ranks, for it was
composed of the three best elements that made the
soldiers.of that day—the native American, the Irish
man and the German. The American element was,
however, strongest in it, tho bulk of the foreign vol
unteers in those days enlisting in their own special
In June, 1864, the Ninth was mustered out, and
resumed its old place in our National Guard. Four
years later it reached the monumentally gorgeous
apex of its career when
The General Bourn of New York made tho Ninth
the,most magnificent militia regiment ever known.
Its uniforms were of the finest, its equipments of
the.best',; and, its entertainments of the most splen
did. It had the finest band in tho country, and Pat
Gilmore was ite leader. Its drum-major would have
earned a princely salary in a circus, and when it
went on parade or gave an entertainment it was re
ceived with unbounded enthusiasm. All that money
could do was dope for the Ninth, and it became a
show regiment of the first order. It was its colo
nel’s joy and pride to prance forth at the .head of his
glittering legion, swollen with the pride of.triumph
ant rascality, to be idolized by the mob.
Col. Fisk only rode out to real service with his
regiment.once, fond as he was of leading in (the pa
rade. This was on the occasion of
Aud it is told of him that while his mccwere
gallantly facing the furious mob, just such a mob
indeed as had been wont to yell its acclamations at
the gilded scoundrel, whose audacious villainy set
him above the Jaw, tho doughty James was skulk
ing through a .barber shop, and over back fences in
his shirt sleeves, to find shelter from brickbats and
worse missiles, in Josie Mansfield’s arms.
It reads like part.of the programme of a burlesque
that the battle flag of this great fighting regiment
should drape the coffin of this puppet soldier, who
skulked from the first duty the office he bought im
posed on him. But it was so, all the same.
When the pistol of Stokes laid his great rival low
in January, 1872, he was given a splendid funeral.
His body was dressed in full uniform, as Colonel of
the Ninth, with ths sword lie did not knew how to
use by his side. The ceremonies were directed by
_au officer of the 'regiment, which formed tho guard
of honor over his remains, and the funeral service
w&s read by the chaplain. The regimental band
played the funeral march, and the whole National
Guard contributed to the display, of which one of
their members was the lifeless leading attraction.
to the to say, however, that apart from his
unsavory business record, Col. Fisk was a generous
and kindly brother soldier, and his popularity as a
“good fellow’’.closed their eyes to his faults as a
member of a decent, moral and commercial com
After his death the regiment began to fall into de
cay, but the good soldiership and devotion of Col, ,
starl{Bs anti
William Seward, Jr., aeveteran of the Seventh, who |
had been in the Ninth as major, had left it under
the Fisk reffime to assume the Assistant Adjutant
Generalship of the Third Brigade and came back
to it as colonel in April, 1882, has brought
it to the front again, shoulder to shoulder,
with its associates. The Ninth to-day is—in drill,
discipline and esprit du corps— one of the foremost
regiments in our militia.
A long roll-call of the best-known men in political j
and all-aroupd circles in New York is included in
the old-membership roll of the Ninth. During the ■
rule of Col. “ Jim” it was a sort of club for tho sup
porters of Erie in all walks of life —just as the
Americus was theclub of Tammany Ilall in the Tweed '
days; but since the fall of the Erie chieftain, the
Ninth has undergone a reorganization as beneficial
as it was necessary. It is still the same splendid,
tactical organization it was; but its morale is
higher, and it is, in all ways, a better regiment.
The Eleventh Regiment will parade in the Dispatch
next Sunday, The Eleventh is sometimes called the un
luckiest regiment in our National Guard, the reasons
for which are worth knowing.
Au Officer Takes a Prisoner in a Saloon to
Violate the Excise Law— Respectability
Doesn’t Save Fine—Klein’s Two Dead
head Dinner Friends Save Him—
The|Officer that Didn’t Know
—Selling Without a Li
cense, He Escaped.
Thomas Eccles, bartender at No. 428 Bleecker
street, was arrested March 1 by Officer Cahill, of tho
Ninth Precinct, charged with violating the Excise
•• What, if anything, did yon say to him on that
occasion ?” asked the court.
“ Ho sold me a glass of ale.”
“Did you pay for it and drink it there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“ Are you certain it wara ale ?” asked counsel.
“Yes, sir.”
“ What time was this ?”
“A quarter to ten.”
“How did you get in these premises?”
“By trying the doors.”
•• How much effort did you make to got In these
“ No more than to try the side door.”
•‘.You found it locked?”
“ Yes, sir, and it was opened.”
“And you drank a glass of ale ?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you certain it was ale ?”
“Yes, sir.”
“ It wasn’t weiss beer ?”
“ After you arrested this young «nan you took
him to a place in Bleecker street —Mr, Fox’s—and
asked him to take a drink with you ?”
“I went in there.”
•• And took something to drink there ?”
> “Yea, sir.”
“And made an arrest there ? In the Police Court
didn't you make an affidavit that you drank ale or
beer there?”
i “ Lmade affidavit I couldn’t positively swear what
it was.”
“ You didn’t swear before the magistrate that you
went into Mr. Fox’s place and drank ale or beer ?”
“I couldn’t make affidavit.”
( “ Wasn’t the question put to you and you couldn’t
say whether it was ale or Weiss beer ?”
t “ Yes, sir.”
“ How did you come to go to Fox’s saloon when
you had a prisoner in charge?” asked the court.
“ There was another officer with me. I heard a
noise inside, and I left him outside with Officer
Shields, and arrested another party.”
“You drank nothing there?”
“Yes, sir. I called for a glass of mixed ale.”
“And he gave you something, which you drank ?”
( “Yes, sir.”
“ The same as Eccles gave you ?”
“I couldn’t say.”
♦• This officer,” said counsel, “ made affidavit, in
which he swore be bought ale or beer in Fox’s
restaurant, and after being examined in court ho
couldn’t swear what it was. This boy says he gave
the officer ginger ale; that is all ho sold him.”
Defendant took the stand, and said he sold the
, officer ginger ale; no-beer or liquor.”
“Did the officer take you in Fox’s place ?”
“ Yes, sir.”
“Did he call for mixed ale ?”
“He asked me tojhave a drink.”
“ When he asked you for mixed ale, why did yon
give him ginger ale?”
•' I told him I had nothing but ginger alo ?”
“Was this a regular ginger ale bottle?” asked
Justice Ford.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where did he get this ale?”
“I did not see him draw it?” said the officer.
“The officer with me drank ginger ale.”
“ Do you know if he served, you with ginger ale ?”
asked Justice Ford.
No answer.
“Are you familiar with ginger ale ?” asked Justice
“ Yes, sir.”
“ What did you drink ?”
Fined thirty dollars.
Thomas Howe, No. 507 Third avenue, was charged
with violating ’the law, Sunday, March 14th. Offi
cer Taylor said defendant gold him a glass of
“ Did you pay for it ?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Drink it?”
“ Yes, sir.”
“Was the place closed ?” asked counsel.
“Yes, sir.”
“ It is a respectable place ?”
“So far as I know.”
Fined S3O.
Officer Berkley, of th® Tenth Precinct, entered the
saloon of Joseph Klein, No. 200 Allen street, Bun
day, February 22d. It was a lager beer saloon. De
fendant was proprietor. He was there £when the
officer entered at 2 P. M. The officer saw two men
standing at the corner of the bar, and Klein was
talking to them. His coat and hat were off.
“This saloon is in a tenement-house,” said coun
sel, “ and the saloon faces the street; in the rear his
family lives?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you see a table set for dinner in the sa
loon ?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you get any drinks?”
“No,” he said, “he was not selling anything; did
not eee him sell to any one.”
“Explain to the court how you came to be in the
saloon on Sunday,” said the counsel of prisoner.
“I live in the saloon, and when the officer camo
in I was about to take my dinner.”
“Who were these two men ?”
“They were dining with me. They were two
friends that are in the habit of taking dinner with
me everv Sunday- I sold no beer this Sunday. My
wife wont out in the yard and forgot to lock the
door after her. The wife and two friends were go
ing to have dinner when the officer entered. I have
scld out the place.” ,
T&£ court said ho could go this time, now he was 1
out of the business.
Charles Very, No. 107 Canal street, violated the <
law on Sunday, Feb. 15th. Officer Rooney, Tenth i
Precinct, entered the place at 2A. M. ajld foujjd four j
glasses ou the bar.
| To counsel, on cross-examination, ho said the
place was not opened to a rap. He walked in with
' out the door being opened to him, and found five
• women and four men in the place.
| To the court—" The prisoner was behind the bar
and his coat was off. When arrested, he said, "Wait
I till I get the money for these drinks.”
"That is our defense,” said counsel.
"Fifty dollars fine,” said the court.
Joseph Yates was charged with selling liquor
j without a license at No. 105 South street. Officer
| Meyers said he entered the place and he sold him a
i glass of whisky. The officer said he had known the
prisoner five years.
•• Is it a hotel ?” asked counsel.
" Don’t know,” said the officer.
"Don’t you know he does a small business selling
liquor ?” asked counsel.
" Don’t know,” said the officer.
" Don’t you know that he had a license, and had
made application for a renewal of it?”
" Don’t know,” said the officer.
" Do you know that he has got a license now ?”
" Don’t know,” was the reply.
Defendent took the stand and produced his
license. He said ho had been in that place for five
years. It was a hotel and restaurant, and he sold
liquor to the regular trade for accommodation. He
bad a license for the place all the time there, and
it had been renewed. He had made application for
a renewal of his license, but the Board of Excise
delayed in granting the renewal for four or five
days. Had a license now.
** Discharged,” said the Court.
"Why didn’t you appear at the last court day,
when subpenaed ?” asked the court of Michael Ho
gan, who was witness against John Whitecar, of No.
7 Carlisle street, charged with violation of the Ex
cise law.
"I was drunk,” said Hogan.
" Who made you drunk?”
"I don’t know; some fellow over there in court.’
"A friend of the accused ?” asked the court.
" I suppose so.”
Thecoansel suggested giving him thirty days for
contempt of court, but didn’t act on it.-
Hogan said he went into this place, No. 7 Carlisle
street, on Sunday and had a drink. He changed a
bill, fell asleep in the chair, and was robbed of $10;
went up stairs with the servant girl, and couldn’t
say whether he was robbed above or below.
The defendant and two witnesses swore no beer
was sold in the house, but it was drank there.
They played checkers for drinks, and when a game
was lost or won a kettle was sent out for beer, and
defendant, who was drunk, might have got a sup of
the beer free.
The defendant had no license; he served two
months not long ago for violating the law. The
complaint should have been made for selling with
out a license.
He was discharged.
Photographer Aiding Thief and
. How the Dentist Cheroy was Ac.
r cumulating a Fortune.
6 Substituting Spurious Jewelry
, for G-enuine.
A Mastiff Which Led to the Detection
1 of Organized Robbery.
Monsieur Cheroy was a poor dentist of the Rue
1 de Cbazelles, Paris. He was a widower with a
large family, and resided in the Rue Legendre. He
1 had been struggling for a livelihood for years, for,
’ although an expert dentist and a fine-looking man
of good address, fate seemed to have denied him
success. As it was, he was barely able to make a
subsistence for himself and family, and, to tell the
truth, added a little to his doubtful professional in
come by acting nightly as marker in a billiard hall
in the Rue des Capucins.
On the afternoon of November 7, 1883, Cheroy
1 was standing not far from the billiard hall, when
5 he saw availed lady quit a large milinery establish
’ ment near by, and approach a carriage in wait
’ ingforher. The day was windy and raw and the
earlier part had been wet. As the lady stepped into
5 her carriage, her vail blew on one side, and she
caught it and drew it to her. At the moment
Cheroy saw something flash. The lady entered the
carriage and it was driven off.
Cheroy watched the vehicle depart, and, as he was
turning away, his eye was attracted by a glitter in
the gutter, in which there was water and mud.
Looking more carefully, he was satisfied that the
brilliancy came from nothing less than a diamond.
As he drew near the edge of the sidewalk he dis
tinctly saw that a splendid piece of jewelry lay
among the mud. For a moment he hesitated. Paris
is not a city where a person other than a chiffonier
can pick anything from a gutter without being ob
served and probably surrounded. Cheroy knew this
well, and had recourse, therefore, to a ruse. Taking
his purse from his pocket, he appeared to be search
ing for something inside, and then accidentally, as
it were, dropped it in the gutter. In picking it up
he gathered up the supposed jewel with it, and then
placed both in his handkerchief. Having wiped the
pocketbook, carefully concealing the jewel, he put
both into his pocket and wont toward the billiard
On examining his find, he was satisfied that it was
most valuable. A large brilliant surrounded by six
teen smaller stones, all set in a magnificent piece of
filagree, was what was disclosed to him. Carefully
putting it away, he attended to his duties that
Next morning ho visited the Rue de V augirard
where an old jeweler whom he knew had his busi
ness. This man, named Greuze, bought gold and
silver, and supplied a good many of the smaller den
tists with what they required. He was a shrewd
dealer and a skillful lapidary. When Cheroy showed
him the jewelry, he examined it slowly and without
enthusiasm, and at last, having scrutinized it
through several powerful lenses, he laid it on the
counter with a smile and shrugged his shoulders.
" Well, what do you think about it. Monsieur?”
asked Cheroy.
"Paste,” was the almost contemptuous reply.
"There you are wrong,” said Cheroy; "no false
gems ever shone like these stones, and, beside, the
setting shows that the thing is valuabls.”
Greuze took the jewel once more and examined it.
At length he said:
"I may be mistaken. Monsieur, and if you will
leave it with me for a few days, I will take means to
settle beyond a doubt the question of the genuine
ness of these stones.”
"Many thanks,” was the answer; "but I return
it to the owner this evening.”
"The Marclnoness du Ponthien,” Greuze said
with a half sneer.
"I don’t understand you,” Cheroy said.
" You don’t ?” Greuze replied; " read that.”
And he drew a morning newspaper from his side
pocket, folded so as to show only a small space, and
handedit to Cheroy, at the same time placing his (
finger on an advertisement. Cheroy took the news- ]
paper and read as follows:
"1,000 Francs Reward.—Lost, yesterday after
noon, in or near to the milinery establishment of
Madame Jolivet, Boulevard des Capucins, a brooch (
set with one large central brilliant and sixteen t
smaller ones, The finder will receive the reward t
named above in returning the brooch to the Mar
chiones du Ponthieu, Boulevard Haussmann.” 1
"This is the article evidently,” Cheroy said, f
"and, with a knowledge of this advertisement and 1
reward, I cannot understand how you can suppose 1
for a moment that the jewels are spurious.”
"If they had been genuine,” was the reply, 1
“don’t you suppose the toward would have been
larger ?” Greuze asked.
“A thousand francs is a good deal of money,”
Cheroy replied.
“To you it maybe,” was the answer; “but let
ine toll you that, if these jewels are genuine, they
are worth at least thirty thousand francs.”
” Thirty thousand franes,” exclaimed Cheroy.
“Every sou of it,” said Greuze. “Let me see it
Cheroy handed him the brooch, and he once more
scrutinized it closely.
“They maybe genuine,” he said; “look here.”
He opened a casket, and exhibited what appeared
to be a magnificent necklace of diamonds.
“Will you believe,” he said, “when I tell you
that §very stone here is spurious—that it is all
paste? It is true, nevertheless. Now, you are a
poor man, and the marchioness is rich. Suppose
these stones are real, you take them to her, and she
bands you in return a paltry thousand francs. Nay,
you don’t know that she may not have a detective
in her ante-room to arrest you as. a thief. Now, I
will talk business with you—shall I ? Then here is
my proposal: These stones are genuine—no doubt
of it. If you will leave the brooch with me for
four and twenty hours, I will take out these stones
and put paste In their places, and give you ten
I thousand francs for them. Thon you can take the
brooch to Madame de Ponthleu and get your thou
sand francs.”
“But she will discover the cheat, will she not?”
“If she does,” was the answer, “lay the blame
on me. I will take the risk.”
Cheroy was poor, and his children were miserably
clad and Winter was coming on, and he yielded to
the templer. The next evening when Greuze hand
ed him the broach with paste substituted for the
real gems, he was astounded. For the life of him
he could not tell the difference.
He returned the brooch to the marchioness and
received the reward. But he Invented a story as to
how he came by it.
“I am a humble dehtist,” he said, “ and my
small place is on the Rue de Chazelles. On the
evening of the day before yesterday, when I was
just about to quit my place, a rough looking man
i entered, and removing a kerchief which was
; around his throat and chin, he asked me to examine
t his front teeth. I found that two of them were
broken off, and that the jaw was swollen. I removed
r the stumps and applied a soothing lotion to him.
. He said that some ruffian shad attempted to rob
a a lady on the corner of tho Boulevard des Capucins
1 and the Rue de Seze, and that, in driving them off
f with some other passenger, he received a blow
across the mouth. He was on his way by the
3 Boulevard Malesherbes to the rue Jouffray when
a the pain grew so severe that he sought a dentist.
- After he was gone, I was preparing to depart, when
I saw something lying by the seat which the
stranger had occupied. I raised it and found it was
a handkerchief tied in several knots. On opening
them I found the brooch inside. I immediately
started for home, and didn’t see your advertise
ment until this morning.”
J The Marchioness de Ponthieu was very grateful
to Cheroy, and next day drove to his office in the
Rue de Chazelle, with a friend and had Cheroy ex
amine her teeth. She made an appointment with
him the next day, by which time he had changed
the furniture of the apartment and rented and fit
ted up an adjoining room. The marchioness ex-
T pressed her satisfaction and her intention of pat
ronizing him and recommending him to her friends.
The result was that every day the carriage of some
wealthy lady stopped at his door and his circum
stances improved rapidly. He ceased to be a bil
liard marker and occupied himself with his profes
sion. By and by he let it be kuownjthat he used an
s anesthetic of anew and approved kind, and so per
a formed difficult extractions without pain. This
3 was a cause of increased income. Greuze soon
’» learned of his prosperity, and questioned him as to
1 the character of his patients. Soon after this Cbe
-1 roy added another to his offices and spent
1 much time there with Greuze, practising with a
0 camera until they became expert at taking instan
• taneous photographs,
Among his patients was a Madame Emeriau, a
I wealthy woman, who wore splendid diamonds.
1 Cheroy was removing her teeth one or two at a
‘ time, and she suffered much. At length ho pre
' vailed upon her to take the anesthetic. Aa soon as
3 she became insensible, ho removed a splendid brace
-3 let of large and superb diamonds,and passed it in to
0 Greuze in tho adjoining room, who in a minute
t had taken three or four instantaneous photographs
3 of it. Meanwhile Cheroy operated on his patient
and had the anesthetic handy to renew its applica
tion, if necessary. Greuze handed back the brace
b let and Cheroy clasped it on the lady’s wrist. Then
i Greuze departed.
, The next day but one, Madame Emeriau again
j submitted herself to the dentist, and again wore
, the splendid bracelet. No sooner was she under
the influence of the anesthetic, than Cheroy un-
■ clasped the bracelet, and handed it to Greuze, who
t appeared from the adjoining room. Greuze com
- pared it with another bracelet, which he then
handed with a triumphant look to Cheroy, who
i clasped it on the lady’s wrist.
This scheme was performed perhaps, on various
customers, a score of times, without detection, and
Cheroy and Greuze were growing wealthy on the
spoils. At length a circumstance occurred which
led to tho detection and punishment of this pair of
One afternoon, a Madame Maubert, whom they
had selected as a victim, came to Cheroy’s, accom
panied by a magnificent mastiff. Cheroy suggested
its being left in charge of the coachman, as it might
be troublesome, but Madame Maubert assured him
that he would be perfectly still where she directed
him until she gave him permission to move. The
gas was administered, Greuze came from his room,
holding the spurious gem which was to be substi
tuted for the lady’s brooch, and Cheroy was in the
act of removing the jewelry from the lady's neck,
when the mastiff sprang upon him, and seized him
by the arm.
The next moment Cheroy fell and the dog changed
his grip to the throat. The man struggled and
Greuze tried in vain to drag the savage beast away.
Cheroy’s cries for help were heard on the street and
two officers were soon on the spot. By this time
the lady had recovered consciousness. Her brooch
was firm in the grasp of Cheroy, who was lacerated
and bleeding. The moment the lady recognized her
jewelry the officers’ suspicions were aroused and they
would not allow Greuze to depart. A search was
subsequently made and a brooch—the very counter
part, in every respect, of Madame Maubert’s, but
with spurious gems—was found in Greuze’s pos
session. The plates disclosed to the eye of a sharp
detective the fact that many beautiful pieces of
jewelry bad been photographed, and no doubt re
mained of the business which Cheroy and his ac
complice had carried on. Greuze’s place in the Rue
de Vaugirard was searched and valuable gems were ;
found. Cheroy made a confession and many
precious stones were recovered and restored to their <
There was no doubt that the scheme was of 1
Greuze's concocting, and that Cheroy was too weak
minded to resist temptation.
Greuze was sentenced to twenty years and Cheroy
tojfifteen at hard labor.
The Sebvant Gibb Question. —The
servant girl problem, which has vexed the minds of
men and women from time immemorial, and has
seemed each year to bo further and further from a
satisfactory solution, is now unraveling itself.
Great numbers of young women in the city have
abandoned the slim salaries of the shops and be
taken themselves to the less exacting and altogether
more remunerative household w6rk in private
families. That these girls have chosen the bettor
part is beyond the question of doubt, and that
they will bo more comfortable, better protected and
quite as much respected as behind the counter is
just as certain. Alas, that more of the sex would
not go and do likewise.
"price" FIVE "cents,'!
What have we done that wo should seek
This Lenten-tide, to be forgiven ?
Our lips have never dared to speak
Reproach or calumny of heaven 1
Yet to the Lenten-tide belongs
Repentance for some secret wrongs.
• What need have we for deep distress ?
Our hands have never robbed the poor,
We have not spurned in bitterness
The trembling feet that sought our dOOFfI
And yet the Lenten prayer is meant
For those whose hearts are penitent.
We beg for " new and contrite hearts,"
Within the sacred walls to-day,
And some iorgotton shadow starts
From out our sunshine as we pray; •
For heaven takes our souls aside
To search them at the Lenten-tide.
What have we done? Our hearts can tell
Of scorn, impurity and hate.
Of pride we have not sought to quell,
Of duty’s promptings bidden to wait.
Ah, heaven bids us view our prido
With sorrow at the Lenten-tide,
What have we done ? Our narrow thought
Has limited the Love Divine,
And all the flood of Truth has sought
In human channels to confine.
The Truth of God, so free and wide,
Condemns us at the Lenten-tide.
A Lock of Red Hair,
Daylight wag breaking when Lucy returnee!
to Mrs. Richmond's room. The poor woman
was still in a moat hysterical condition, alterna
ting between violent attacks of sobbing ah<l
paroxysms of shuddering terror.
Mrs. Mitchell looked gravely at Lucy and!
ebook her head significantly.
“Don’t you think we had better send one of
the girls to ask the doctor to come down as early
i as possible, miss?” sho said. "I dare say
missua would feel easier-like if she consulted
him, and he’s a clever young gentleman and
will advise us what to do to prevent the fellow
getting in again.”
' Although tho old housekeeper adopted this
reassuring tone, Lucy could see it was entirely
asaumed lor the purpose of quieting the fears
of her mistress, and that she was in fact fully
impreßsed with tho truth of the ghostly charac,
, ter of the terrible apparition. —- *- J
, “Yes,” agreed Lucy. “You would like to
. see Dr. Maurice, wouldn’t you, dear ?”
i “Yes, yes,” replied Mrs. Richmond, who was
I by this time almoat exhausted; “ send for him,
but don’t you leave me.”
“No, ma’am; don’t you trouble; we won’t
' leave you—never you fear I Now you keep
still for a little while and see if you cannot get a
wink of Bleep.”
“I feel as if I should never sleep again,” de
clared Mrs. Richmond, her sobs getting fainter
! and fainter.
“But try, ma’am, and, Miss Lncy dear, do
i you lib down on the eofa and do the aamo.
Why, you look quite pale and worn out 1”
■ The housekeeper could not have used a
stronger argument than this last to quiet Mrs.
Richmond, who, in the midst ol her terror and
’ suffering, still retained her unselfishness.
“ Poor child, I have frightened her I Lio
down, dear, and I will try to be quiet for your
“ And I’ll sit in this arm-chair and keep watch
, over you both,” added Mrs. Mitchell.
Strangely enough, in less than a quarter of an
i hour they were all three soundly asleep, com
pletely exhausted by the excitement they had
1 gone through.
1 When Mrs. Mitchell, who was tho first to
awake, looked at tho clock, she found it was
: eight.
“Why, gracious me,” she said to herself, “wo
have been asleep for four hours—that ought to
do missus good 1 Poor soul! I wonder what
that was a warning of in the night? I hope
nothing has happened to master ; but I doubt
me. I won’t disturb em ; but I’ll go and send
off for the doctor now and make them a cup of
tea. Bless her pretty face,” she added, looking
at Lucy, “ Bhe’s like a sunbeam in the house 1
She’H make a man happy some day or I'm
much mistaken.”
They were still sleeping when Mrs. Mitchell
returned to the room, bearing in her hand a
tray with two cup of tea. A slight noise sho
made in setting it down awakened Mrs. Rich
mond and immediately after Lucy opened her
“ Why, I have surely been asleep 1” exclaimed
Mrs. Richmond in amazement.
“That you have, ma’am, for nearly five
hours; it must have done you a world of
“ Well, I certainly don’t feel so bad as I
should have expected to; but then, you know,
I have not slept so many consecutive hours for
“Now, you drink this cup of tea and I’ll put
the room tidy. Doctor Maurice Will be here be
fore we know where we are.”
Ten minutes later he was ushered in, looking
flushed with the hurry he had made. He re
mained with Mrs. Richmond some little time
and then descended to the drawing-room, leav
ing Mrs. Mitchell with her.
“ Oh, Doctor Maurice,” cried Lucy, who was
anxiously awaiting him, “ I am so thankful to
see you ! We have had such an awful night'!”
“Yes, indeed, you must have had 1” he said,
kindly. “ I was quite grieved to hoar such a
dreadful account from tho servant; it must
have shocked you terribly 1 I cannot say I am
altogether surprised,” ho continued. “Sho
was in a dreadfully nervous condition when I
left last night. I did not want to frighten you
unnecessarily; but I was really alarmed and in
tended coming this morning instead of in tho
“ But why should her nerves have anything
to do with it ? Surely you don’t suppose it was
a ghost she saw ?”
“Not I, indeed!” he returned, laughing.
“1 don’t believe in them a bit; but I feel cer
tain it was a case of spectral illusion. Her
nerves were just in the higbly-wrouglrt condi
tion that would induce an illusion of that kind.
And what completely convinces me is the fact
of the spectre having red hair. Between our
selves, I believe that unfortunate conversation
of ours has been the cause of it all.”
“ You must forgive me for disagreeing with
you,” said Lucy. “I am firmly persuaded that
a man did enter Mrs. Richmond’s room in the
night with the idea of robbing her, and that her
shrieks so startled him that he rushed away
without achieving his purpose ; for I am quite
sure, after her first scream, which awakened
me, I heard some one brash past my loon fttt*

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