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I M |w i : ilr< H WlWhf 1 % .JO4J- walr ®w jltew^'ww AW-z ULOboteJLI > (fegsg y.. s JSjSSL 3raE\ JSPJOdgEgMgjg) PIBUSIIED BY A. J. WHABM 801. vol?xli.-no? 24. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Matter* THE NEW YOKE 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 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. 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. AdarfeffS NEW YORK DISPATCH, Post Office Box No. 1775. plays ano players. -‘SPECULATIVE ENTERPRISE.” 'Wr. Montgomery in “ Ttief Theatre ”—A Wail Over the “Palmy Days”-The Old-lime Managers—Were They Worshipers of Art?—The Pothers and Hamblins. BY JOHN CARBOY. A new ‘'weekly record of the stage” was born in lto the world of journalistic trouble, trial and f travail on last Saturday a week ago. It bears the ? title of The Theatre. Price five cents. It publishes, ' aside from contributed articles, critical and other wise—in the first issue they are mostly otherwise— 'the casts of the current plays at the various thea tres and pertinent news items of the weekly do ’ ings of prominent as well as the ordinary mem bers of the profession. The initial issue contains • contributions from the pens of George Fawcett Rowe, George Edgar Montgomery. Doshlar Welsh and I hilip G. Cusacks. B. B. Valentine and Henry Gallup Paine are an ' nounced as being contributors to the second number, which was issued yesterday. Also Mr. Townsend Percy makes himself heard in this issue. Mr. Percy is conversant with theatrical matters, at least he ought to be, for he has paid very dearly for bis knowledge of the business, and, beside, he was for some time the dramatic critic of the now mori bund Star. In this latter capacity I believe—with ' out reference to the ability displayed in his criti cisms—he was, in the expression of his opinions, honest and kindly. MR. MONTGOMERY made his record as the dramatic critic of Jones’s Independent - Democratic-Republican • Mugwump ■don’t-know-what-in-sheol-it-is Times. While Mont gomery was connected with this diurnal hybrid, his contributions were about the only consistent and honest articles in the treatment of their sub jects there wore in the paper. If he was in error, the fault was not resultant from intention, but in judgment. Ho was too straightforward in his views, too man ly in his criticisms to suit Jones's organ. In fact he couldn’t change his tune to suit the Jones’s idea of carrying water on both shoulders with a couplo of pitchers in each hand for use in cases of emer gency. There was nothing of the Mugwump in G. E. M.’s composition. Beside, ho was young. He had not grown bald in Bohomianism. Ho was natty in appearance; his clothes fitted him with a made-to-order exact ness. His coat was as unwrinkled as his face; he was mild-spoken, modest; not at all the sort of person to rough it in tho wild riot of petty jeal ousies, the arrogance of cheap officials, tho back biting and hydra-headed annoyances which mark the conduct of so many daily papers—especially one like tho Times. Being young and unused to roughing it, and thinking everybody his special friend who patted him on the shoulder, he became, after a while, through his innocence and peaceful disposition, A VICTIM OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE. He attended to his work faithfully, wrote poetry, essays, and let everybody elso’s business severely , alone. This sort of man on a daily paper is not likely to be particularly successful. There isn’t enough of the conspirator in him. His capacity for midnight beer and billiards and bar-room criticism, is too limited. ■ Above all. he had the misfortune to be a scholar, and scholars are rarely afflicted with an itching palm. As Captain Diedrich, in “Evangeline,*’ remarks, “Ho had some style about him.” So whon all these attributes of his character which so utterly disqualified him from service as a critic for Jones’s Blow-hot-and-cold Times, and as a conspirator, how could he have expected that his . position would be permanent ? He resigned his position as critic. Out and away from the murky atmosphere of the Times, impreg nated as it is with Mugwump malaria, Montgom ery’s path has been one of peace and poesy; he has used his pen as he chose, and has, I trust, so prospered that there has never a doubt clouded his thought as to the source from whence his morrow's bread and butter and other health-sustaining luxu . ties would come. The Times has not, since he left it, had as faithful .ft representative of its dramatic columns since. But it has one which can inhale its atmosphere and live. Schwab. Now it is that Montgomery, possibly wearied with the monotony of sailing on the smooth sea of an unobtrusive life, has taken unto himself the task of seeking the rewards and emoluments, not to r say tho reputation which may be his, as tho co publisher and editor of a “ Weekly Record of tho Stage.” His reward, I hope, will be success not remorse. I notice, in this connection, that a reporter who, in tho course of a year’s service on a daily paper, lias had two or three assignments to interview an Actor or actress, manager or playwright, or to ■“ write up” a performance at one of the minor thea tres, invariably—if his assertions and assumptions Are to be believed— KNOWS MORE ABOUT THE STAGE, Its people, plsys, history and business, than those who have passed the better part of their lives in theatric study. They know it all; but, unfortunately, they nover betray their vast knowledge in anything they write for the press. Of these is the man who had an assignment not long ago to write up a dress rehearsal at the Casino, and who had Pauline Hall “ stepping from the atage into the fiies,” and referred knowingly to the “ exquisite setting of the tormentor wings in the upper entrances,” and incidentally mentioned that the artistic tasto of the property man was plainly visible in the “ props and other braces, which add ed to the brilliance of the wtise-en-scene.” Oi these, too, was the Herald man, who once crit icized a performance of “Fazio” at Niblo’s Garden, -and called the work a “ new play written by a cler igyman" —“a play containing some excellent and then he went on and gave a synopsis *f the plot. You boo it wasn't his fault that ho wasn’t old enough to have been in New York or Philadelphia in 1818, wlicro it was played and wasn’t even then regarded as anything particularly now, or that it was extraordinary that a clergyman should have written it. But ail the same, he knew it all, jpf these, too, was the one who “ went” for a lead ing ,actress who, as ho asserted, “gave a miserable roudK*ion of her part of Ophelia, in ‘Othello,”’ aud wounit i’P with the crushing announcement that, 2b a whole, this piece of sbßicapeare•o, , since its adaptation by Sheridan Knowles, has never been so wretchedly misrepresented.” Now, again, a return to the text of this little dis course may not be out of order. In the initial number of this modest and unas suming candidate for public favor, The Theatre, Mr. Montgomery contributes an editorial which boars tho title of “THE MANAGER.” He gives it as his opinion in this editorial that the manager “not so very long ago was a well defined personage,” but that now he is not of that ilk in the vocabulary of definitions. And that the old-fashioned manager is at this moment merely “ an agreeable and highly respectable reminis cence.” This slighting reference to tho old Public func tionaries of the theatre who have come down to us from the palmy days of the last century, or therea bouts, is rather rough, to say the least, upon such well-preserved and vigorous veterans as McVicker, Bidwell, Colville and Hooloy. What has any one of these bright and shining managerial lights done that he should thus be put by Mr. Montgomery upon a pedestal in the Museum of Antiquities, and labelled—“This is a Reminiscence; see Catalogue.” “The main object,” quoth my esteemed friend, G. E. M.» of tho manager in the palmy day period, “was not to make money, but to produce plays and present actors. If the plays and the actors made money for him, so much the better; if not, he was seldom disposed to throw up his trade and rush into a more lucrative business.” That is to say the old time manager was always ready to go into bankruptcy for the sake of exalt ing dramatic art. That rather than a Murdock, a Booth, Forrest, or any of the great actors of the time should suffer from a stringency in his individ ual financial account, the manager would give the star the entire gross receipts of the engagement, and himself board at the alms-house, and go around with his hat taking up a daily collection with which to pay his company and the rest of his theatre. I remember many of those great and good SELF-SACRIFICING MANAGERS. There was old John Bates, John S. Pother, Garry Hough, Carr and Warren, Hamblin, Price, A. H. Purdy, E. A. Marshall, Simpson, and a score or two others equally notable in “the long ago,” whose “main object was to produce playa and present actors, and not to make money.” But it is painful to reflect that through some defect in their mental vision they almost invariably lost sight of tho main object for which they became and were managers, and really exhibited a disgust ingly unartistic and greedy desire to enrich them selves first and give'what was left—to the actors. Thoy did not encourage art by paying a loading man two or three hundred dollars a week—nor did they expend ten or fifteen thousand dollars in the production of a play. Not a bit of it. The leading man was happy if he received twenty-five to thirty dollars a week; and the ordinary star, if he could get forty or fifty dollars a night, looked upon him self as on the high road to fortune. There were as many Stetsons, Miles & Bartons, Gilmores, Hills, Miners, Murthas, Abbeys, Frenchs, Graus and McOaulls IN THE “ LONG AGO ” as there are now There was no less speculation in theatrical managers than we have now. Their methods and the profits and losses of their dramatic undertakings were not so familiar to the public as the enterprises of the managerial guild of the pres ent time, for the simple reason that thirty and forty years ago there was comparatively little said of them in the public press; neither players or plays hold such a prominent position in social or popular estimate as they do now; thoir movements, the financial resources of the managers, and the progress of the drama were far from being mat terfl ’-'nmjnt in «»” ''nminorcia' sense. Columns in the press in advertising, in notices, interviews, criticisms and theatrical news are devoted to the stage and its condition and work now where paragraphs were then considered all sufficient. There are a score of managers now, where in the “long ago” there were scarcely five; theatres have multiplied ten fold, and the chroniclers of their daily history, the newspapers, have increased almost beyond computation in number, influence, circula tion and size. Had the motives and objects for which a large majority of the managers of those days and even of tho “not very long ago” been as clearly ventila ted by the press, I have a gloomy suspicion that it would have been revealed that they had a much greater interest in the receipts of the box office than in the exaltation of dramatic art. Else wherefore did managers then when Shakes peare wouldn’t “draw,” when melo drama—the “ Agnoe, or the Bleeding Nun,” “Dumb Girl of Genoa.” “Flying Dutchman,” “Cherry and Fair Star,” and all that sort of thing wouldn’t “pull up the season to a paying basis ” —knock out the profit less legitimate in one round and put upon the stage nomadic troupes of “Model Artists”—the nude forerunners, in lack of costume, of comic opera choristers and gaze with delight upon the packed audiences these exhibitions attracted? THEATRICAL MANAGEMENT IN THOSE DAYS meant money—as it does now. If profit could be made by a close adherence to the legitimate pur poses of a theatre and dramatic art, well and good; if not, then, anything for profit. I do not agree with my critical friend that “we must deplore tho fact that speculative enterprise should dominate artistic purpose.” It is this spirit of speculation, creating as It does, rivalry among managers and the expenditure of capital by each one of them in endeavoring to pro duce dramatic or theatric attractions to win the greater share oi profit and popular fame to himself, which has in the past few years brought to our stage its greatest dramatic and artistic triumphs. What but the speculative enterprise of Jarrett and Palmer was it which brought to our stage the magnificent revivals which in late years we have had of “ Julius Cass ar,” “ Henry V.,’” and “ Sar danapalus,” or of Hill and Abbey in that of “Romeo and Juliet?” What but “speculative enterprise ” induced Robson and Crane to give so costly a re vival of “The TwoDromios?” Did these managers expend all this money out of a pure and disinterested love of art; for the mere purpose of “ producing plays aud presenting actors ?” Not much 1 They didn't even give a thought to the “ domination of artistic purpose ” other than in so far as it might be tributary in ensuring a profitable return through popular favor. Were it not for this same spirit of “ speculative enterprise ” would capitalists and property holders invest so largely of their means in erecting theatres and lavishly providing them with every attribute in the way of decoration, and of costly furnishing, to satisfy not only the most luxurious tastes of the public, but to ensure the most perfect representa tions on the stage ? Let us have more “ speculative enterprise ” and less of this mourning about the decadance of “ dramatic art.” If the public wants Shakespeare and “ the old comedies ” the managers will give them place. But when a man wants to purchase a pair of shoe strings he isn't going to ask for horse shoes. THE PLAYGOING PUBLIC is not timid in making known its taste. And if it has an appetite for comic opera or burlesque, the manager would be deservedly regarded as an idiot who would persistently endeavor to satisfy that appetite with “ Hamlet ” or a dramatization of the “ Sorrows of Werther.” The manager, like the actor, must fit himself to his time and its demands. The newspaper of fifty years ago would make but a sorry showing to-day. Ths Figaro published thirty odd years ago by the elder Parsloo, in Barclay street, was a “lame and impotent conclusion ” as compared with any of the dramatic papers now published. Fifty years hence chore will bo tho story of to-day—the old, old story repeated. There will be the same grief over “Specu lative enterprise dominating dramatic artistic pur pose.” We won’t know it, Montgomery, but it’ll be there all the same. The press and critics and the wiseacres then will mourn for the “ palmy days” of ISS6; thoy will tell tho rising generation that then thoie were managers who loved Art better than making money. They will Dame the Stetsons, Hills, Abbeys, Grans and tho rest, as men who were continually throwing their money to the dogs for tl*o sake of embracing Art and being glorified as martyrs in her cause. And the young critics of 1936 will tell their man agers thai they thouid take cample from those of 1886. And I bore thoy will io ibn public libraries or at «Oiuo of the old bank (stalls fin J volumes in a read able .etale of preservation, of Mr. Montgomery's The Tiicaif e. And ib&t the pe?ti#al of r»li C s of the jour- a dead aud fcoou era, will tend with earn reader “To wale Pre sotfl by cirol<*« of Art Tp tawd ths goaih's and tv lujud tho heart.” NEW Y<ORK- SUNDAY," MARCH 28, 1886. TBESAPPHI&EONIHEBEICfI A HORRIBLE LEGEND OF BARNEGAT. Tlie Men WHo Came from tlie Sea. DAZZLED BY GOLD AND GEMS. Sol Mulready’s Murderous Hos pitality. REUBEN THE PARRICIDE. The Assassination of Senor Camacho, A HORROR-HAUNTED CABIN. A paragraph going the rounds of the press to the effect that a fisherman has picked up on the beach near Barnegat a very fine sapphire, has given rise to a great deal of speculation and fanciful surmise as to how the gem came to be where it was found. The generally accepted hypothesis is that it was washed up by the sea from a wreck, though some surmise that the romance behind it is no greater than the simple dropping of it from a setting in some duck-hunter’s adornments. Either explana tion may be the true one—yet perhaps neither is correct, for tho sapphire, found where it was, fits strangely well into ono of the most strangely horri ble legends told by the old folks along Barnegat way on the Jersey coast, among whom there is a wealth of weird, fantastic and ghastly tradition—which, however, they aro very shy of airing to incredulous strangers. The story they tell, which may be THE TRUE TALE OF THE SAPPHIRE, is as follows: As long ago as 1846 there lived near the beach a tall, sallow, raw-boned man known as “Bulky Sol,” but whose real name was Solomon Mulready. His family consisted of a dreary, old, worn-out, wretched-looking wife, whose name of Mehitabel might have been enough to crush her even without the hard life she had with Sol and three children—two sons, Reuben and Daniel, aged respectively 20 and 18 years, and a daughter, Nancy, aged 12. They fished and gunned for a living, sup plementing those’avocations with occasional petit larcenies when they had a chance, and ofttimes cap turing some valuable plunder from wrecks, which wero sadly frequent in those days upon that coast, even when no false lights gleamed upon the shore. In June of the year mentioned, Sol Mulready, going down to the beach early one morning, was a little surprised to see coming in from the sea a small boat rowed by two men. No vessel appeared in sight to discourage the supposition that they might have rowed across from the other side of the big pond. In fact Sol, with a slight abatement of his ordinary sulkiness, asked them if they had not done so. “Oh 1 no,” answered one of them. “ Not so bad as that. But we ve had a long pull all the same and don’t mind telling you why, for you look like a square good fellow who wouldn’t betray a couple of sailormen in bard luck. The fact is that Murty and I were shipped aboard a hermaphrodite brig where there was a mate who just made life a heli for us, and one night we, to protect ourselves, gave him such a hammering that he isn’t out of bed yet. We knew that j ust as sure as he got us to New York the Captain would have us arrested for MUTINY ON THE HIGH SEAS, and we made up our minds that as soon as we could give him the slip we would do so. Last niaht we got a chance aud—here we are. That’s all there is of it and I think if you’re a man and found your self fixed as we were, you would have done as we did.” Sol said that he thought he would. Probably if he bad known their real story—wlaidh was not at all like what they told him—he would have been quite as likely to do as they had done. He didn’t more than half believe them; and yet their story was a good and not at all an improbable one, They had made it up well so as to stand inquiry. But t-bey were such a villainous-looking pair! Sol didn’t mind that. He rather liked viilainous.look ing people, being one of them himcelf. They said that they had a few shillings and would like to buy a breakfast. He led the way to his cabin where the miserable-seeming Mehitabel and her daughter got them up an abundant, if not choice, meal. After breakfast tbe two deserters took a walk down the beach. Sol wondered wby two men who must be weary from a night's hard rowing, should take a walk for exercise. He sniffed a possibility of profit in watching them. Clambering up to the low garret of his one-story cabin he laid himself upon its floor before the small square window that sus tained a semblance of doing duty as a window for it, and trained upon them a powerful ship's teles cope that he had once “saved ” from a wreck. The two men went a long distance up the beach, looking about them keenly from time to time, as if to watch if they were observed. Then they sat down on the sand, lighted their pipes and smoked for some time, all the while watching to see that they were quite alone. From where thoy sat only tbe end ot Sol’s cabin, above the eaves, could be discerned. At length, as if re-assured by the per fect solitude around them thoy proceeded to busi ness. One of them spread his jacket between them on the sand. Then, each drew packages irom in-‘ side his shirt, where they had been upheld by his belt. As they opened the package and poured out their contents a flood of GOLD AND DAZZLING GEMS glowed and sparkled in the sunlight. Viewed through the glass the treasure seemed so near to Sol that his fingers mechanically clutched as if grasping at it. He saw the sailors divide it in two piles, toss a coin for first choice between them— which seemed to be won by the loquacious one who had told the fanciful story of their flight—and then each, taking his share, secreted it about him, after which they lit their pipes again. Sol came down from the loft, put away the telescope and hastened to tho swamp, having first told his wife that she must not, before his return, give dinner to the sailors, who had that morning announced their intention of going away about dusk. They did go away about that time, but not as they had purposed. When Sol returned from the swamp he brought with him a bunch of foliage, apparently some small vines twirled tightly together, and a quantity of thick, glossy, green leaves, which he concealed un til he could get a chance to jam it into a coffee pot that he filled with water and put on the fire to boil, After a little while be poured off a greenish decoc tion from the leaves, cleaned out the coffee pot, put in the decoction again, threw in some coffee,’ and ordered Mehitabel to get the dinner ready. The fugitive sailors ate heartily, and each drank a couple of cups of tbe coffee Sol had prepared Within half an hour after dinner strange sensations assailed them. Their hearts beat violently, yet a feeling of cold seemed to run through their veins Then they became drowsy, and when they got up to go out into the open air their knees weakened and they staggered. Going a little way from the house, on the beach, they laid down upon the sand and in a iew moments lost consciousness alto gether. Sol, who had been watching them from the door of his cabin, came down to them, with a keen sheath-knife in his belt, and a shovel in his hand With as much coolness as if he had been simply spading up a garden, he dug a hole in the sand near the head of each stupified man, and then, taking first one and then the other, rolled them over on their faces, put a knee upon their backs, holdfin" up by the hair their beads, CUT THEIR THROATS FROM EAR TO EAR, letting the blood flow into the holes he had dug. Then he rifled the bodies of every article of value upon thorn and taking them one by one in his boat, carried them out to deep water and sank them there, with heavy anchor-stones fastened to their eet. That was the journey they started on, a much longer one and sooner commenced than they had contemplated. Sol. believed that no human eye had witnessed his crime. He was wrong. His sons were away at Barnegat, Nancy was hunting berries in.the distant woods, and before he went out to kill the sailors he tied Mehitabel so that he thought she could not move toward the door to see what he was doing. But the old woman’s curiosity gave her surprising forces. She could not quite get to the door, but did manage to crawl to a hole in the wall where she could follow her busband with her eyes. The horror of the sight she saw paralyzed her. When Sol had completed his job, he returned home, liberated bis wife and again clambered up to the loft, to bo alone, in order that he might learn the amount of wealth that he bad won at the cost of two murders. It overwhelmed him. There were more than two handlulls of precious stones, emeralds, sapphires, rubies, diamonds and pearls’ Starless anlr Concerning those he could only make a guess, from their size and brilliancy that they must be worth an enormous sum. With the gold, however, he was more familiar, and there was enough of it to make him a rich man, from his point of view. It was almost dark when he finished counting and esti mating, and so engrossed had he been in his task that he had not heard the return of his sons, or the hideous story that the white-faced, trembling, half crazed old woman told to the elder one. No, he heard of nothing, thought of nothing, for hours, until DEATH STOOD AT HIS ELBOW, except gold and precious stones. Suddenly awak ened to a consciousness that some one was climbing up the cleets on the wall that served for a ladder to the Jott, he hastily jerked a piece of sail-cloth over the piles of wealth on the floor and turned, with an oath, to demand who was coming up. For answer, tbe head of his eldest son, Reuben, arose through the little trap door, followed by his body. “ What do you want here ?” demanded Sol angrily. “I want half ” “Half what?” Reuben’s only reply at the moment was to bring from behind him his left hand, that he had kept clenched until now, and to lay before his father what it had held—a handful of sand, clotted togeth er with blood. The young man had gone to the beach to verify his story and, easily find ing the spot where the murder had been done, had brought back this evidence to support his claim for a share In tbe profits of the crimes. Sol replied to his son’s demand with a refusal, a curse and a threat to break his neck—as nearly si multaneously as one tongue could utter three things—aud springing to his feet struck Reuben a violent blow in tho face. The boy knew that he was no match for his father and backed away, striving only to shield himself from the blows that Sol — who seemed to be wild with fury and was yelling, “ You’ve come to rob me I have you ?”—rained up on him. The low small loft was an ugly place for such a struggle, but Reuben did not dare Attempt descending the ladder for fear of being kicked in the face. Becoming desperate he pulled out a dou ble-barreled brass pistol that, since he was a boy, he had been in the habit of carrying “ for style ” — and, without any deliberate aim, Area it toward tho powerful man who, with frenzied strength was beating him down. Sol Mulready follto the floor dead, with A BULLET IN HIS HEART. When Reuben had sufficiently collected his senses to realize that he had killed his father, terror over came him; ho thought no more of the plunder of the dead sailors, but only of escape, and with a cry of horror rushed down the ladder and out of the cabin door and away in the gathering night. He had not even seen the treasure. Daniel, who had been sitting on tbe bench out side the back doorand amusing himself with paint ing up an old duck decoy, heard the quarrel, the shot, and Reuben’s cry as he fled, as did also Nancy, who had just then returned home. It was some minutes, however, before he could summon suffi cient resolution to go up in the loft and see what had happened to the man who so suddenly stopped cursing and striking. In these few minutes the dusk had deepened until it was almost night. He took a candle with him when he went up. Sol was dead—no doubt about that. The best thing Daniel could do, as it seomed to him, was to lower tbe body to the ground floor. It would then be time enough to consider what further was to be done. There were plenty of ropes in the loft. He fast ened one about his father’s body, ran it around a post of an old cot bedstead, so that it should not “ pay out” too rapidly, and made ready to push the corpse to the trap and lower away. Just then he accidentally kicked aside tbe piece of sail-cloth and exposed the glittering piles of gold K oxuo. sight seemed to dazzle and stun him for a moment. Then he was possessed by an agonizing fear that somebody would come up to help him and share bis discovery. With nervous haste he pushed the body down tbe trap and let it go with such a rush that it landed with a violent thump upon the floor below, fairly shaking tbe house. For an instant his heart stood still. Thon he seized a handful of tbe gold coins, shoved them into his pocket as if to have with him a tangible proof that he was not dreaming, and, blowing out the candle, hurriedly descended the ladder. It was quickly determined by the widow Mul ready and her two children that, to shield her elder son from the possible consequences of his rash act, Sol should be buried deep in the sand, at some dis tance from the cabin, and the murder concealed. If the neighbors should miss him, thoy were to be allowed to suppose that he had been DROWNED AT SEA, and a story was concocted of Dan. finding his fath er’s boat bottom upward, stranded on the beach. Anyway, they had little to fear from neighbors, who were scarce, and little interested in them. Dan. dug a deep hole in the sand. He and his mother carried Sol to it and covered him up in it. That night, while Nancy was asleep and his mo ther was weakly sobbing in her bed, Dan noiseless ly climbed to the loft again and secured the rest of the gold and tbe precious stones. It scared him almost to death to go up there, but his cupidity was greater than his fear. Not until daylight could he examine bis rich find. Of the possible value of the gems ho had even less idea than his father had, but he felt that they represented a li.rge fortune. Securing in his pockets one stone of each color green, blue, whito and red—he made his mind up to take all the gold, go to Philadelphia for the great spree that had been the dream of his life, find out while there something about the value of the stones and return home for tbe others, which he would carefully hide somewhere before going away. When he got them he would sell them for all they were worth, go far away somewhere aud enjoy all the pleasures that riches can give. He did not waste a thought upon the mother and sister that he would leave to starve. During the day he fonud an opportunity to hide his treasure. The best place he could find to se crete them was in the sand under a loose board in the floor of his mother’s bed-room. That night Daniel set out for Philadelphia, walked all the way there, and within ten hours after his arrival had got foolishly drunk in one of the vilest haunts of the city, had boastingly exhibited hie geiUß, had been robbed of them and of every coin he had. and waked to find himself destitute, half naked and lying in the rain, at night, in an alley. His head ached so that it dulled his mental agony over his loss, and in a dazed way he stumbled down to the ferry, begged his way across, and set out for homo, unconsciously GOING TO HIS FATE. Two things had happened at the cabin on the beach during his absence. The morning after his departure a couple of strangers came there, driving in a beach wagon along the shore, making inquiries whether anybody had seen two sailor men come ashore in a small boat, two days before. Tbe Widow Mulready, though cold at heart wilh apprehen sion, obstinately denied all knowledge of the men, and Nancy, though she knew that two sailors had mysteriously appeared and disappeared, took her cue from her mother and professed entire ig norance. The men, who announced themselves officers of the law, said that the persons they sought were Luciano Savali, an Italian steward, and Murty O’Brien, a sailor, who had murdered and robbed a Spaniard named Senor Camacho, on the herma. phrodite brig “ Gitana.” Senor Camacho was a rich hunchback, who had amassed great wealth as a slave dealer in New Orleans, and was on his way to New York, carrying the bulk of his riches with him. One morning he was found a corpse in his bunk with a great broad-bladed and sharp.polnted dag ger driven squarely through his heart. A belt that he wore about him, filled with precious stones of enormous value, was gone. The diamond studs in his shirt bosom and the diamond rings on his fin gers were gone. The heavy rolls of gold that he was known to have in his trunk were also gone and the trunk stood open, completely rifled. Savali and O’Brien, too, were gone, and one of the brio’s small boats with them. g It was clear enough that the steward had per petrated the murder and robbery, while the sailor who was on the midnight watch at the wheel’ looked out for their eseax-e and they had gone to! gether in the boat. Having told their story the officers went away. The second thing that happened was that Mrs Mulready, quite overcome with her violent emo tions and physical weakness, took to her bed with what proved to be her death sickness. When Dan arrived home to find his mother ill in bed aud two old neighbor crones—called in bv Nancy—watching constantly at her side, he was in tensely disgusted. He had but one thought—to get the precious s’ones and flee. But he could not cet at them with those old women there. He felt that he WOULD THROTTLE HIS MOTHER, if he could get a chance unobserved, to hasten the solution of the difficulty. The end was nearer than bethought, however. That night she died and the old women busied thems< ves making her ready for burial. Dan sat in tho outer room, gnawing his nails with impatience and in his heart cursing the enforced delay. Suddenly his sight was attracted to the one little window in the back wall of the cabin and he saw at it, very white and with eyes abnormally large staring in upon him, the face of his missing brother Reuben. Thinking that it was the fugitive and that he would have to go outside to see him. he went out of the front door and around the corner to the back of the cabin. There was nobody there. He was surprised and went on around the small building, seeing no one until he turned the corner nearing the front door, when, to his unspeakable horror, he was met by hi* father—looking as he had in life but with a face distorted by vindictive rage, who glided toward him with a threatening gesture. The boy turned with a shriek and fled up the beach. Swift as he ran, two figures joined and kept pace with him—the figures of sailors, with ghastly grins upon their evil faces, with their index fingers pointing to their throats, which were cut across from ear to ear and yawned open like enor mous bloody mouths. The figures got before him. He turned and ran back the way he came to the through the front floor of which he dashed and tell fainting to the floor. When he revived—thanks to the pail of water that Nancy, in trying to sprinkle his face, spilled all over him—he found that the crones had finished preparing his mother’s corpse for the grave. They had washed it, clothed it with the least ragged of the poor woman’s calico gowns, and straightened it out upon a board laid on two chairs, in the outer room, with clamshells in lien of pennies upon the sightless eyes, to keep their jids closed. At last! The bed-room wa? fcmply. Ho could now seize his treasures, and. as soon as day broke, flee from that horror-haunted home. Tremblingly he stole into the room where Death had just been, and in the darkness knelt by Hie side of his mother s bed to lift the loose board and clutch the package of gems buried beneath it in the sand. The edge of a quilt hung low in front of the bed, and was in his way. He threw it back, stooped and recoiled in terror, for there before him, squatting over the place where the treasure was secreted, and with eyes that seemed to shed a greenish, baleful light upon him, was what the half-demented boy imag ined to be THE GHOST OF SENOR CAMACHO, the murdered Spaniard. The shock, coming so speedily upon what he had already endured, over threw the last of the boy’s reason, and he dashed out of the house again, this time a maniac. He was never seen again in that neighborhood, but died in a Delaware poor-house, a couple of years later, recovering his senses sufficiently a little be fore death to tell most of this story. Nancy lived for a while with one of the old women who helped to prepare her mother for burial, and then drifted away, none knew where. The cabin was said to be haunted, and somebody set it on Are. Very speedily the sand was drifted over its ashes by the winds, and not a trace was left of the place where it had stood. The only sign ever seen since of Senor Camacho's gems was probably the sapphire recently picked up on the beach. KOT SIR TOOMAS’S WIFE. The Mysterious Thefts in an En glish Baronet’s House. THE SKILLFUL WORK OF A DETECTIVE. A. Visit to a Devonshire Village. A Most Remarkable Revelation of Fraud and Deception. •<The facta I am going to narrate,” said an En glish detective to the writer, “are of comparatively recent date, and for that reason I shall not give you the full names.” In October, 187-, Mr. Lewis, a celebrated criminal lawyer of London, received a summons to attend at the residence of Sir Thomas T , a middle-aged baronet of large wealth and influence. When he reached the baronet’s residence. Sir Thomas said: “Mr. Lewis, I wish to consult you about a very remarkable occurrence. As you see, Jam suffering from the gout, or I should not have troubled you to wait upon mo. My wife, who, as you may be aware, is much younger than I, has for some time been missing various articles of jewelry and small sums of money. We have done all in our power to dicover the depredator, but our efforts have been useless. Emboldened by immunity, the thief has become more daring and rapacious. A diamond aigrette, worth £2,000 sterling, and over £SOO in money were stolen from La ly T ’s escritoire yesterday evening. At eight o’clock she laid the aigrette in a drawer in her escritoire, intending to wear it at a later hour, and placed the money, which she had drawn from the bank early in the day, alongside it. Leaving the door of her apart ment open, she crossed the corridor to her maid’s room, opened the door, kept hold of it while she gave some directions to the head nurse, and re turned immediately to her apartment. “Half an hour later she discovered that the aigrette and money were gone. As I was ailing and had retired, she said nothing about the loss to me until this morning, and lat once sent for you to ask what you would recommend under the circum stances.” “ No one but yourself and Lady T knows that the diamonds and money are missing ?” Mr. Lewis asked. ••No one,” was the reply. A SUGGESTION. “ Now, you will understand, Sir Thomas,” said Mr. Lewis, “ that though I may advise you as to the best course to pursue so as to discover the thief, it is peculiarly the province of a regularly qualified detective to investigate this matter. This is a fine library, Sir Thomas.” “Yes, but it is very much out of order,” Sir Thomas replied. “ I observe that,” Mr. Lewis said; “ now, if you take my advice, Sir Thomas, you will employ a gentleman for a week or two to put it in order. I know a gentleman who could do it for you. It is not exactly his line of business, but I feel sure he could do it. You see, Sir Thomas, to return to the other matter, an expert detective is the man for the job. And I think it would be needful for him to be domiciled in this house for a week or two. You have some fine volumes here, Sir Thomas. The gentleman whom I would recommend would re quire a bed-room and a parlor where he could have his meals served. He would soon put this library in good order. Now, suppose, Sir Thomas, I send a detective to investigate this theft. Nobody must know he ij a <HtecMye,, ydfl the gentleman I temporary librarian, of courftd you would introduce him as such, and Lady T and the domestics would know that he was your librarian. As your librarian, he would have to do with you. In other respects, Sir Thomas, he would bring his information to me.” A light dawned on Sir Thomas. Ho saw at last what Mr. Lewis was aiming at and said: “Any gentleman whom you send here, Mr. Lew is, I will understand is to be my temporary libra rian. In other respects, I will not interfere with him.” “ And when will the rooms be ready for him ?” Mr. Lewis asked. “Any time. This evening,” was the reply. “Then, Sir Thomas, your librarian will arrive about six o’clock this evening,” Mr. Lewis said, and departed. INSTALLED. At six o’clock that evening I arrived at Sir Thomas T ’s residence and was received cour teously and introduced to Lady T as a gentle- man experienced in arranging books, who was go ing to put things to rights in the library. Now, I couldn’t tell you howl fulfilled my duties as temporary librarian. My real business was, of course, to keep my eyes open and see what clew I could discover about the robbery. I soon became familiar with the apartments occupied by Lady T , and came to the conclusion that there was more of a mystery in the case than I at first-sup posed. The third day I was there I saw something which opened my eyes. I was in my private room after dinner, taking a smoke, when I heard foot steps in the corridor. I was on the alert, for my lady’s apartments were on the opposite side of the corridor. I had oiled the lock, handles and hinges of my door, so that I could open it without making a noise. I held it a little ajar and listened. Two persons were in a’low conversation. AN ASTONISHING SIGHT. I glanced out carefully and saw Wynne, the but. ler, conversing with some one who stood within the doorway of the anteroom to Lady T ’s bou- doir. Presently the person within the doorway came forward and I instantly recognized Lady T . She placed her hands familiarly cn the shoulders of the butler and, looking up Into his face, spoke in a low, earnest tone. Presently he took her gently by the arms and then patted her OFM, NO. 11 FRANKFORT BT. cheek. She passed into the room and then the but ler departed. You may be sure that, experienced detective as I was, what I had just seen, greatly astonished me. Lady T was not more than twenty-six and the better must have been at least fifty. I was not ready to believe that there was any illicit companionship between these two and yet bow was I to explain this scene? I got down and thought over the sub ject for fully an hour. Who was Lady T ? What were her antecedents prior to her marriage with Sir Thomas? How and where had he met her? These were questions I would have given much to have had answered. I went out and visited Mr. Lewis. I didn’t tell him what I had seen but I asked for information re specting Lady T , and he promised to furnish it to me the next day. Until then I had to be content to possess my soul in patience. Next day I was again at Mr. Lewis’i office and learned what I want ed to know. A HISTORY. Sir Thomas was the nephew of his predecessor in the baronetcy. His father had early squandered what little patrimony ho had and, dying at a com. paratively early age, his widow and only child were left in very straightened circumstances. The boy managed to pick up an education and went into the diplomatic service. On a visit to his mother’s home in Devonshire, when nearly thirty five years old, he fell in love with the daughter of a poor clergyman. They had not been long engaged when Thomas was sent to India to fill a position of some responsibility. For some time the lovers cor responded, but finally the young lady informed Thomas that her father bad been stricKed with paralysis and that he had had to resign the small curacy which be held. They were reduced to pov erty when a gentleman kindly lent them aid. This gentleman, whose name was Ransome, had proposed marriage to her, and she represented to Thomas, in pathetic terms, the necessity of hts immediate re turn and their speedy union, unless he was pre pared to see her the wife of another. It so hap pened that the ship by wbicn this letter was sent to India, was lost, and that Thomas was laid up with a severe attack of fever which necessitated his re moval to the mountains. Thus a year passed, and no letter came in response to tbs young lady’s. With her helpless father upon her hands and a kindly gentleman aiding them, his hope being that the daughter would become his wife, and thus en able him as a mark of affection and duty, to provide for her father, she was in a painful dilemma. When hope was almost gone, she consented to be come the wife of Mr. Ransome and they were mar ried. They removed to Staffordshire, taking the in valid with them. The father died, and Mr. and Mrs. Ransome lived happily together for nearly ten years without any expectation of a family. At the end of that time, however, a daughter was born. Not long after, Mr. Ransome lost all he had in the world in railroad speculation and committed suicide. THE ADOPTED CHILD. All that the widow had to subsist upon was an in come of £SO a year. She removed to the village of Biddicomb, in Devon, and there took up her abode with a widow named Small, whose farm was man aged by her son. Mrs. Ransome died within three weeks of her arrival at Biddicomb and young Small resolved to care for the child. The person who bad the paying of Mrs. Ransome’s income con tinued to remit it, and the widow and her son con sidered themselves well repaid. The child, named Ethel, grew strong and lovely. From papers left by the mother, young Small discovered the relations which had once existed between Thomas T and Mrs. Ransome, and that the former was nephew and heir to Sir Reginald T , baronet. When Ethel was seventeen the baronet died and the nephew re. turned from India, having attained the mature age of sixty-three. He had never married. Young Small wrote to Sir Thomas, informing him of the circumstances of the death of Mrs. Ransome and enclosing letters and papers which contained re peated references to the baronet, at the same time Small informed Sir Thomas that he had cared for Mrs. Ransome’s only child, a lovely girl, now ap proaching womanhood. Sir Thomas, whose heart was still faithful to his first love, at once started for Devonshire, saw Ethol, was transported with her beauty and proposed to educate her and provide for her in the future. Mr. Small could say nothing in answer to this proposition in the absence of her son, who had gone to Swansea to purchase sheep. It was ar ranged, however, that on the son’s return, an an swer should speedily be given, and Sir Thomas de parted. The result was that Sir Thomas’s proposal was acceded to, and Ethel went under his guardian ship and protection. Six years later she became Lady T . DOWN AT BIDDICOMB. Somehow or other, I felt satisfied that the butler had something to do with the missing diamonds and money. As soon as I could well get away, I went down to Biddicomb. Mrs. Small was dead, and young Small, bettor known as Sam, had quitted the farm about three years before. What like a man was he ? Well, he was a large man with sandy hair and ruddy face and very large blue eyes. Whither had he gone ? Some said to America or Australia; others to London. Sir Thomas’s butler was a big man with sandy hair, ruddy com plexion and large blue eyes, and he had been in Sir Thomas’s employ as butler only since his marriage. Tnis was a coincidence. Ah I now I had it ! What more natural than that Lady T should be on familiar terms with the man who had been to her as a father for seventeen years. I went and found some of the oldest inhabitants of Biddicomb and had a talk with them. One of them, Master Somers, remembered Mrs. Ransome’s coming to the Smalls. She remembered, too, that about that time Susan Warsot had an illegitimate female child by Sam Small, though he wouldn’t own it and it went to the poorhouse, and died there. Of course Susan Warsot was living down there by the water-side, in the small cottage with the yellow blinds, but she was now Mrs. Shelton. A DISCOVERY. I went and had a talk with Susan. She was busy making a fishing-net in her back yard but was ready to talk. I showed her half a dozen sover eigns and jingled them under her nose and she ad mitted that she had had a child of which Sam Small was the father, but denied that it died. “What became of it ?” I asked. “Sam swapped it for another child and it was reared by his mother five years ago. Sam and the child disappeared for a time and Sam came back without her and said she was well married. But that was all stuff, for she’d been married afore she went. That I know, when she was barely sixteen she went off with Kit Marven, a sailor that came to Randolph, and they were married at Lawton for I went there and saw the registry myself.” “ And what became of Kit?” I asked. “ Oh. he went off with his ship and never came back,” was the answer. “Did you never inquire after your child?” I asked. “You see, I got married and had seven children ig w?4lpcjr, and I’ve had my hands full ever since.” Suean replied. I thought I had done pretty well, and went back to London. I saw Mr. Lewis and told him my story, He was astounded. What was to be done ? Here was a nice revelation that had come to light I IHE SAILOR. After a long talk, it was arranged that I should watch the butler who, I had no doubt, was Sam Small. I did so. One night I tracked him to a house in Wapping, where he met a sailor about thirty years old. They had a long confab together, and I observed that the sailor was very domineering and the butler very submissive, and deprecatory. When a crowd came in I gave up my table to them, and moved nearer to the butler and his companion. I took up a newspaper and read it intently, listen ing to the conversation of the persons in whom I was alone interested. I heard the sailor say- “A fellow must spend money. I am bound to have out my spree, and d—n it, I want more money, for I’m off to America. It don’t matter to ' me a curse if she has to steal the old man’s false teeth and sell them, I must have money, or else I’m going to blab.’’ I overheard much more conversation, but I have told enough to show you the drift of this story, it was then all as CLEAR TO ME AS A PIKESTAFF, Lady T was the illegitimate daughter of Sam 1 Small and Susan Wartop, and had been substituted < for Mrs. Ransome's child. The sailor was Ethel’s husband. Kit Marven, and he had found her out and was bleeding her under threats of exposure. She had’taken her own jewelry and money and ( pretended that some thief had stolen them. It was a nice predicament for one to be in, but Mr. Lewis agreed with me that there was nothing for it but to 1 make a clean breast of it to Sir Thomas. How I told him the story and how he received ft, I needn’t describe. He bore up wonderfully. He ’ refused to see the woman who had doubly deceived 1 him, for she was, as Small admitted, aware that she i was his child and procured his appointment as ; butler to have him near her in case of any unfor- 1 seen trouble with Marven. Bbe quitted the house, and Sir Thomas settled upon her an annuity of ( £4OO a year. That’s my story. I think somebody ( ought to have been banged at the finish, but reality 1 is stranger than fiction. PRICE FIVE CENTS. LIFE WORTH LIVING. How beautiful it is to be alive I To wake each morn, as if the Maker’s grace Did us afresh from nothingness derive, That we might sing how happy is our case. How beautiful it is to be alive. To read in some good book, until we feel Love for the one who wrote it; then to kneel Close unto Him whose love our soul will shrive. While every moment’s joy doth more reveal How beautiful it is to be alive 1 Rather to go without what might increase Our worldly standing than our souls deprive Of frequent speech with God, or than to cease To feel, through having lost our health and peace* How beautiful it is to be alive 1 Not to forget, when pain and grief draw nigh. Into the ocean of time past to dive For memories of God’s mercies; or to tuy To bear all nobly, hoping still to cry How beautiful it is to be alive 1 Thus ever toward man’s bight of nobleness Striving some new progression to contrive, Till, just as any other friend’s wo press Death's hand, and, having died, feel none the Jew How beautiful it is to be alive I Mn Sto. “OUTOFTHOEPTHB” BY AN UNKNOWN AUTHOR. CHAPTER I. " MUBDBB ! 1” “ Boys, did ye hear the news ?” “ No, nothin’ particular. What’s up ?” “ Come in out o’ that, man alive, an’ shut the door behint ye; it s a perishin’ blast yer lottin’ in on us entirely.” The scene was a wind-beaten little shebeen in the heart of the Galtees, and round a glowing turf fire some half-dozen shock-headed peas ants were drinking, smoking, and talking poli tics drowsily. “ Well, Mickey, out with yer news.” “Do ye mind ould Tom Connellan, of Larch HSU, over Rathturk way?” answered Mickey, passing his hand over his moist grizzled bead and drawing his stool close to tho hearth. “ Ay, ay; what of him ?” “ Well, that little yalla-hairod girl of his, that plays the argan so grand for Father Maher on Sundays, was murdered an hour ago forenlnst her own hall door 1” “Murdered! Good Heavens 1” stammered a lanky pale-faced boy, rising unsteadily to his feet. “ I—l don’t belaive it. It’s—it’s wan o* yer usual cock-an’-bnll stories, Toole 1” “ Mickey, man, you’re drunk or dramin’—. who’d be after murderin’ the likes of her ? It’a a lie 1 It can’t be 1” All the drowsiness had left the group, as each man, clutching his glass, leaned forward, his eyes fixed excitedly on the new-comer, who, ev idently satisfied with the sensation he had pro duced, began composedly lighting hie pipe. Af ter two or three exasperating puffs, ho answered musingly: “ A lie ye say, hoys ? Well, well, may be it is; the man who tould it to me beloved he was tell ing the truth, any ways,” " Who was he ? Who tould ye ?” “Jemmy McCabe, the post-boy. I mot him on the Mill Road twenty minutes ago; an’ he tould me that when he was laivin’ Rathturk with th’ letters, Nancy Byrne, the Connellans’ servant, came tearin’ down the main street like a mad woman, havin’ run the whole way from Larch Hill, an’ with just breath enough left in her body to pant out ‘ Murdher—mur dher 1 The doctor—tho praist—tho po-leece I Quick 1’ ” “ Save us an’ bless us—what does it mane ?” “ Who’d have the heart to kill that purty child—she was little else ?” “Mickey, Mickey, can’t ye spake, man ?’* “ Who did it?” “ What was the raison ?” “Nobody knows yet. It seems tho mother thought the gurl had gone to bed early, an’ they was all just saited eomfortable like in tho parlor as usual, when they heard a screech outside, followed be the report of a pistol, and, ruunin’ out, they found her lyin’ face upward on the grass a-swimmin’ in blood, but nobody in sight.” A long silence followed, broken by the host, a wiry little fellow with pale, blinking eyes, “ What brought the gurl out at the hour, is what I ask ? Somebody must have sent for her, you know; or may be it was a saycret meetin’. Ye never can be up to the ways of gurls, oven the beat o’ them.” “No, nothin’ o’ the kind. The idea is, she merely went out to meet her sweetheart that she was to be married to in tho mornin’, who was expected back from Dublin by tho last train.” “Her sweetheart? Ye mane that black headed chap from Mexico that’s got Tom Con nellan be the nose—ye’ve heard of him, boys, haven’t ye ?” “ Ay, ay, that we have—that we have,” an swered three or four voices in bitter chorus - “the meddlin’ scoundrel 1” “Him that turned out the poor Roches to perish with could an’ hunger on tho bog last Thursday week ?” “An’ that give the O’Conuors of Ballydoon notice the day before yesterday, I heard in town to-day—bad cess to him 1” “ Well, it seems he went up to Dublin on busi ness, and was expected back to-night, and Miss Nora, they fancy, not wishin’ to go to bed until the last train was in, went down a bit of the ave nue to see it he was eomin’, an’ so came to her cruel end as 1 tould ye. Heaven have mercy on her sowl this night 1” “ Hew sowl is in glory, there’s no doubt o’ that, for a betther, kinder, gentler, sweeter young lady never throd the earlh, as I ought to know that’s known her since the day she was born—an’ ye can’t gainsay me in that, Mickey Toole,” growled a grizzy old giant, striking the rickety table with his ponderous fist and glaring at Mickey. “I ain’t a-gaiusayin’ of ye, Phil Burke. Why do ye talk at me like that ?” murmured Mickey, aggrievedly. “ I never said or heard said a word that wasn’t to the young lady’s credit—an’ as iur her purty face, why it did wan good to look at her !’’ •‘That it did, with her lovely beamin’ eyes.” “ An’ her beautiful, shinin’ hair,” put in an other. “ An’ her purty red lips, that had a smile an’ a kind word ior every one that camo her way, high or low, rich or poor.” “ Do ye mind the time, Phil Burke, when yer brother was in trouble about Howley’s bailiff how she sat up with his wife night altar night when she’d the fever, and minded the babby as if it was her own ?” “ When the Slatterys were starvin’, the year o’ the blight, how she toiled up the hill every day of her life with the bit of food that kept the lile in tbeir bodies —Heaven bless her 1” “ An’ Heaven help the man that did thie erne!