New York dispatch. [volume], May 23, 1886, Image 1

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

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PUBLISHED BY A. J. WILLIAMSON’S SONS.
VOL. XLI.-NO. 32.
Watered tft the Post Office at New York,
N. $., as Second Class Matter.
THE
PUBLISHED AT
NO. 11 FRANKFORT STREET.
She NEW YORK DISPATCH is a journal of light, agree
aW a and sparkling Literature and News. One page is de
vbted to Masonic Matters, and careful attentlcn 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.
Aaaress NEW YORK DISPATCH,
Post Office Box No. 177®.
PLAYS AND PLAYERS.
SOME INDIVIDUALS.
Something Concerning the Late fteorge
Wood—His Burial by the Actor’s Fund-
What Sort of a Rian Samuel Colville
is—'A Glimpse at His Character—A
Baltimore Man—His Opinion
of Salvini, etc.
BY JOHN CARBOY.
*Vhen George Wood died a few days ago, there
passed from this life a humane anomaly. He was
not altogether of a loveable disposition at any time
of his professional career. He had some traits that
served him well in his business ventures. One of
these was, that a cent was worth, if anything, a
mill more than a cent, and that a dollar wasn’t the
sort of thing which should ba lying about loose, to
be grabbed up by the hand of charity, confiscated
by as an increase of his salary, or to be
used for any purposes whatever other than those
which would insure it an increase in number.
Ido not mean to say that George Wood was a
mean man, but he was very close in the bargains he
made, and he had a particularly sharp eye on the
count of the house. He was probably at his best, so
far as his success as a manager was concerned, at
the period when he married the then famous
actress Eliza Logan. I believe that marriage was a
happy one. If it was not, either they kept the
secret of their matrimonial troubles close within
their own knowledge, or else the slander gatherers
at that time were very derelict in their duty to the
press. Alter Eliza Logan died, the decadence in Mr.
Wood’s prosperity began. There were
OCCASIONAL FLASHES OF SUCCESS,
the promise of which came to naught. At his
museum in Broadway, where now stands Daly’s
Theatre, he k had as one of his successes Lydia
Thompson and her troupe of blonds. It was an
exceedingly profitable exhibition of female anatomy,
not be found in the museums of our present time.
Theydid "Ixion,” " Sinbad the Sailor” and other
lively; picturesque and suggestive specimens of bur
lesque. Mr. Wood’s last experiment here in the
way-of management was at the Cosmopolitan Thea
tre, in which he revived the old-time chestnut,
known as the " Naiad Queen.” For the production
of this play hehad that distinguished and profound
scholar, actor and stage manager, Mr. William M.
Fleming. The play had previously been revived in
Philadelphia by Mr. Wood, and, as he informed me
one evening, it had "caught on” there. At the
Cosmopolitan it was one of the most succcossful and
dire failures of that house of failures. The costumes
were cheap and tawdry. The scenic accessories
flashy and unartistic, and the company would have
made even a dime museum manager weep. Never
theless Mr. William M. Fleming was the stage
manager and went on for a part in the cast, and
George Wood rubbed his hands gleefully together as
he looked in at the sparse collection of spectators
on the second or third night, and exclaimed : “ Oh !
this is nothing. Just you wait until the people
know what kind of a show this is, then you’ll see.”
When George Wood went.out of this speculation
he virtually
PASSED INTO PRIVATE LIFE,
and from, one might say, all knowledge of the peo
ple of the stage, and ho went off it, too, a poor man.
He possessed one supreme virtue, that of an honest
man. Whatever he agreed to pay, he paid punc
tually; whatever agreement he made with his fel
low man, he fulfilled his share of it with scrupulous
exactitude. His funeral services and necessary ex
penses were attended to by the Actor’s Fund.
And here is just where Mr. Samuel Colville comes
to the front as he has many times and oft before in
similar cases and quietly gives his generous nature
an opportunity to exercise its prerogative. At his
death Mr. Wood was very largely Mr. Colville’s
debtor. Mr. Colville proposes out of his personal
funds to make ample provision for the widow’s
necessities. Speaking of Sam Colville it seems to
have become the habit, not only the habit but a
great source of amusement on the part of sundry
wit wasters to omit no opportunity to hold a vet
eran manager up to ridicule. They apply to him
divers and sundry epithets, the latest being the
addition—-" Poobah.”
I remember seeing only a few days ago in print
the assertion that be was a " grasping money wor
shipper and conceited old wind-bag.” The man
who made this assertion shows himself to be as lit
tle acquainted with the decencies of journalism as
he is utterly ignorant of the character, the profes
sional career and the quality of the man he so viru
lently assails.
MR. COLVILLE
is a clear-headed man of business. When he makes
a contract with any one he makes it as favorable to
his own interest as he can. So does every one who
is not a natural born fool.
He carefully fulfills in all his transactions his ob.
ligations as nominated in the bond, and he expects
every one with whom he has financial dealings to
be equally as ready and willing to fulfill his.
There is no one to-day who can or dare confront
Mr. Colville with the statement that he is a dishon
est man; that he has ever swindled anybody out of
a dollar, or has demanded payment other than for
value received. In his transactions with Mr. Hav
erly, Mr. Campbell, and other more or less mana
gers—some of these less managers than they were
adventurous speculators—he has simply himself
adhered to the contracts which they were willing
themselves to make. At the time he became pos
sessed of the lease of the Fourteenth Street Theatre,
through having made large loans to Mr. Haverly, to
aid that wild, vicarious individual in his wild
goose schemes and theatrical ventures, Mr. Colville
said unto the aforesaid Haverly, " Never mind the
fifteen or twenty thousand dollars you owe me. It’s
all right, old boy, a little thing like that shouldn’t
trouble me; I’ve got plenty of money, everybody is
welcome to it. I desire to pose as a philanthropist
just simply to inform the public that lam a good
fellow.”
Haverly immediately said to himself: "Ob,
haven’t I caught a sucker
But Colville isn’t one of that kind. He may have
his whims and personal peculiarities, but be never
braces himself up before the public as one who de
sires to be pointed out as a man whose liberality
runs away with his judgment.
Through a long career of active work in the man
agerial field, he has acquired what is supposed to
be a large fortune. And, so far as I know, he has
not only used it wisely in his own interest, but has
in numerous instances extended aid by heavy
loans to managers in this city and elsewhere ; who,
but for bis kindliness and timely help, would have
been hopelessly wrecked on the shore of ruin. Of
course, lor these advances ho took what security he
could get, i f the sum he has made by his shrewd
ness and business tact in the produ.-tion of plays,
in the control of tombjt’atiouK, and in hie various
enterprises, the press can always glibly inform the
public. But of
HIS KINDLINESS AND HIS FORBEARANCE
in many cases, when he had the right as well as the
provocation to be overbearing, grasping and avari
cious, there is little said in public print. I think it
would be in better taste hereafter for the para
graphed of the press to write of Mr. Colville as if
he were a man, and not an object of ridicule.
A Baltimore man suddenly burst in on me re
cently. He is a ranupant, outspoken, anti-Salvini
man. He is bald-headed, he is tragic in his tastes.
He has " seen it all ” in the way of great actors for
the past forty years. He was highly indignant.
His favorite paper, the Baltimore Amerioan, bad, to
his utter disgust, slopped over to the extent of two
columns and a half in praise of Salvini’s Othello,
•not only in praise but absolute worship.
"Now,” said he, with a sort of Bounderby bounce,
"I want to know—has this maccaroni-eating Italian
shown any new reading, anything more effective in
situation or any grander action, any possible reve
lation of character in his impersonation of Othello,
than we have already seen revealed upon our stage
again and again by English and American tragedians
infinitely Salvini’s superiors in mentality ?
"SALVINI’S BUSINESS IN OTHELLO,
" especially in the third act, is nothing more than
the fustian of a rampant melodramatic mounte
bank. His Othello is a being of muscular contor
tion, not of scholarly study and appreciative com
prehension. It is of enormous physical vitality
and brawny neck, and the face and physique of a
Roman gladiator. Salvini has a voice which is
never musical and is harsh in its louder and hiss
ing in its lower expression. If these attributes and
the walk of a butcher in an abattoir, make up the
requisites of a great Othello, then Salvini is great.
However, you can count me out on Salvini.”
There you have a Baltimore man’s idea of Salvini.
What a pity it is that he isn’t a New Yorker.
THEDOUBLETRAGEDY.
Marie Ledoux’s Husband and
Lovers.
A WICKED WOMAN’S WILES.
Moral and Social Ruin of Gabriel
Cornichon-
RAOUL IN THE SPIDER’S WEB.
Ingenious Device of a Woman Trho Knew
How to Handle a Pistol.
INNOCENT MURDER OF A BROTHER.
Marie Ledoux found herself in a rather embarrass
ing position, and could not very clearly see how she
might be extricated from her predicament without
either her husband (Victor) -or her lover (Gabriel
Cornichon) should suddenly die. She would not
much have cared which of them it should be, for
she was equally tired of both, and both plagued her
with their jealousy—Victor about Gabriel, and Ga
briel about his brother Raoul, a fine-looking young
fellow to whom she was desirous of transferring
what she was pleased to call her affections. The
principle consideration that might havo influenced
her in making a choice which of the two should
die—could her choice have settled the matter—was
that Victor used to beat her whenever he got drunk,
which was not seldom, while Gabriel never took
that liberty.
From this brief preliminary statement of the re
lations between three of the actors in the memora
ble tragedy of the Rue du Chat, it may reasonably
be inferred that they were not nice people. If they
had been, they would have been rather out of place
in the Rue du Chat, where niceness was not a pop
ular characteristic.
The improvements made in Paris under the Sec
ond Empire have swept away the Rue du Chat en
tirely, but the sort of people who infested that lo
cality in November, 1852, were never improved out
of existence, and may still be found in abundance
in the lowest quarters o$ the city wherever vice and
misery have their haunts.
Victor Ledoux kept a little shooting-gallery in
one of the cellars of the Rue du Chat. Away at the
back of it was a side room where gambling was
carried on and in that room, and two others adjoin
ing, a great deal of bad wine and worse ardent
spirits were consumed by persons of measurably
concealed avocations. Little if any of the money
spent there, had been honestly earned by those who
squandered it.
It would be difficult, without the aid of a dia
gram, to give a clear _idea of the topography of
Victor Ledoux’s cellar, or cellars, for the subterran
ean territory claimed by him underlaid parts of
three, if not four, houses; its extent was probably
not exactly known by anybody but him and it had
a variety of connections with other cellars and
labyrinthine ramifications that were as convenient
to bis thievish patrons as they were annoying to
the police on the occasions of the official visits of
those functionaries. Up-stairs rooms, secretly con
nected with tbe cellars, where he kept the stolen
goods he bought and the evil potables he sold, not
withstanding police prohibition, were matters of
belief among his customers and of suspicion
among the police.
He had two assistants, a surly, dull-brained,
strong fellow known as Jean, who was always on
duty in the cellar front where the shooting gallery
was; and his wife Marie, a
VICIOUS BUT CHARMING
young woman, upon whom a variety of duties de
volved. When parties were shooting, it was her
place to remain in an iron shielded retreat near the
target to signal to the front of the gallery the de
grees of accuracy of the shots, to whiten over the
face of the iron plate about the bulls-eye, and to
keep count of the shots fired as a check on Jean,
who took in the xponey.
Althdugh the shooting-gallery was a mere pre
tense to cover the real but unavowable business of
the place, it was a well-maintained pretense, and,
so long as it existed, Victor Ledoux proposed that
all possible should be made out of it. He himself
took charge of the various businesses in the back
rooms, selling drinks to those who would pay for
them, drinking with those who wished his society,
gambling with any player who offered himself and
seemed worth plucking, buying things now and
then from persons who had portable property to
dispose of cheaply for cash—perhaps picking a
drunken man’s pocket occasionaly.
Gabriel Cornichon had been an artisan in brass, a
good workman and a worthy fellow, until the evil
fortune of an accidental visit to Ledoux’s shooting
gallery brought him within range of the fascinations
of Marie Ledoux, with whom he grew infatuated.
After that he went to the bad, speedily. Ho became
hex lover, and, to supply her with presents that she
made him understand she would like, and he would
get for her " if he loved her,” he stole some valua
ble articles from his employer. It waa his first
offense, and he was a bungler at thievery, so ho was
readily caught, and served a term of imprisonment
for his crime. When he was set free again he found
himself
CONDEMNED FOR LIFE
to be a criminal. Nobody would give him employ
ment in his old trade, and, could he have obtained
any, he would inevitably have fallen, as he did be
fore, through hie infatuation for that plump, black
eyed, red-lippod temptress, Mario Ledoux, bis pas
sion for whom had in no wise weakened or been
chastened in prison. Indeed, the bitterest part of
his punishment had been the constant gnawing
suspicion, while he was locked up, that some other
man was supplying his place with her. 80 he set
tled down to be a habitue of Victor Ledoux's shoot
ing-gallery den of thieves, and soon, as he was ex
pert in the handling of tools, found himself earning
more money than he ever had before, by making
false keys and burglar s implements for professional
thieves.
Bo waa well settled in this mode of life when his
NEW YORK. SUNDAY. MAY 23. 1886.
brother Raoul returned from America, where he
had been for several years. Raoul had done well
abroad, and had merely returned to Paris on a visit,
to show his old friends how successful he had been,
to enjoy again a little season of Parisian life, and
then to take his brother Gabriel away to the United
States. As soon as Marie saw him she put in play
all her wiles to captivate him, and not without suc
cess. He was young, vigorous, impressionable, ra
ther reckless, and plunged into the amour with an
enthusiasm of which his unfortunate brandy-sod
den brother was no longer capable. Marie, at first
only animated by animal passion and a desire to
capture a good share of the money he seemed well
provided with, soon found that she cared very
much more for him than she ever had for any other
man who had been in her arms, From this feeling
sprang up in her mind a
DIABOLICALLY INGENIOUS
yet simple scheme for arranging a future to suit
herself. The first step in that scheme was to, in
some way, get rid of Victor, her husband. She
might have betrayed to the police any one of many
nefarious operations in which he was engaged and
had him put away in prison for years, but that
would not be sufficient. In that case, his stolen
goods—the hiding-place of which was well known
to her—and his secreted store of money would al
most certainly be found and seized by the police,
which would not suit her at all, for the getting of
that wealth was an important part in the plana she
cherished. From her point of view, Victor would
havo to be killed, and then she would be free to
take everything and skip away to the United States
with Raoul, leaving Gabriel in the lurch. But how
could he be killed safely ? That puzzled her a lit
tle, but not for long. An ingenious woman having
once made up her mind to a wicked deed, is sure to
find readily some means for perpetrating it.
Things were in this situation when one raw, cold
and rainy afternoon in November Gabriel Corni
chon found Marie in the recess back of the target
and had a long talk with her. He too had a scheme.
He
WANTED HER TO RUN AWAY
with him. She was much too practical to do that.
Deserting her husband, who had considerable pos
sessions—however acquired—for a lover who had
nothing but a precarious income from the making of
thieves’ tools was not to her taste, even had she
not boon already tired of the lover. But Gabriel’s
urgency gave her an idea.
"See here, Gabriel,” she said to him, ” don’t yon
see that if we were to run away together, it would
bo hunger marrying thirst. I have no stomach for
that. If we could take Victor’s money with us, I
don’t say that I would not consent to go with you.
But, be is rich and we would be two great stupids
to go off and have empty pockets, leaving him to
enjoy himself. And we cannot steal his money—he
is too sharp. And even if we could, he would have
us snapped up by the police—and you know by ex
perience how disagreeable that would be. No. The
only thing to be done is to put him out of the way.
Then we could go off in a comfortable and reasona
ble way. Can you not knock him in the head, or
knife him, in such away as to make it seem self
defense ?’*
"No I No!” replied Gabriel, shuddering at the
thought, " I have sunk low enough. I cannot be a
deliberate murderer, even of the man who stands
between me and happiness.”
"As you please, my fine lad. That is just where
he stands. How much I would love you, if we
couM be tree to do as we please. I don’t mind
telling you that I am very tired of him and I think I
would do anything for the brave fellow who would
rid me of him. But—what is that to you ? You are
afraid. Well—somebody else may not be so ecru
pulous.”
In vain Marie used all her devilish wiles to
INCITE HIM-TO MURDER,
inflaming his desire, taunting him with cowardice,
torturing him with jealousy. That was a crime
still beyond his capacity, even to please her. She was
disappointed, for she had thought how easy would
bo her escape with Raoul, if Victor should be killed
and Gabriel sent to the galleys for life. Still, she
was not discouraged. One plan failed, so she
must try another; that was all.
Marie was an excellent shot with the pistol. Vic
tor had taught her, that she might join visitors in
shooting contests and beat them. Very few of the
patrons of his gallery were her equals in marksman
ship. She had learned, among other fancy shooting
tricks, to make a bullet ricochet from a plate on the
floor and strike the bulls-eye. It is a very simple
and natural thing, for the smooth plate gives the
ball a new angle of direction that can easily be deter
mined with absolute accuracy. That knowledge
gave her an idea.
The target in Victor’s gallery was a simple heavy
plate of iron, painted, or chalked-daubed-wbite,
with a round black spot in the centre. The sides
were alike and it was pivoted longitudinally, so
that the back could be daubed over evenly and
spun around instantly to be the front,when tfye front
had been marked up by the impinging bullets.
The lead hurled at the target spattered against the
walls at the sides, or fell upon the floor.
Any one who had seen Marie practicing with the
pistol early one forenoon, a day or two alter her
ineffective attempt to persuade Gabriel to murder,
would have been at a little trouble to understand
what she was trying to do. She would stand at the
front of the range; load a pistol for herself; fire a
shot; go to the rear of the cellar and enter a side
room, the door of which was about nine feet back
of the target; return from there and busy herself
for a few moments with some fixing of the target,
and then return to the front of the range to go
through the same motions over again. She was
SETTING A DEATH TRAP.
Each time she went to the target she gave a slight
change, as modification seemed required, to the
position of a couple of little sticks behind the target,
that held it at an exactly determined angle and the
object of her shots was to fix precisely the angle
necessary to deflect the bullets from a right line,
through an open door into that back room. Fol
lowing accurately their line of flight when she had
concluded her experiments, it would have been
seen that any bullet striking the bulls-eye or near it
would glance off so as io pass directly oygr a chair
at a card table in that inside room and bury itself
in the rough old wall at the side, where one break
more or less would not be noticed. The fact that
tables and chairs in that back room were screwed
fast to the floor, to prevent their being used as
weapons in the not infrequent fights that occurred
in there, helped her prospects of success greatly.
The chair over which the deflected bullets flew was
the one in which her husband customarily sat, for
the reason that it was handiest for him in attending
to his business.
Marie’s preparations were all made in the early
morning, when Jean was away on some errand and
Victor was still asleep in an up-stairs room. There
were a good many shots fired at the target that day
and evening, but none went astray, for the iron
plate remained squarely facing the range. About
eleven o’clock that night, however,
A DOUBLE TRAGEDY
occurred. For two hours Gabriel Cornichon and
Victor Ledoux had been sitting in the back room,
gambling. Marie, who was only intermittently
busy in the gallery, had looked in several times.
Her husband was sitting in his accustomed place
and winning of course, for he was an expert cheat.
No skillful marksmen, likely to strike the bull’s
eye, had yet come to the range since landlord and
pigeon had been sitting there.
Near eleven o’clock she heard voices that she rec
ognized, in the front of the gallery, and a thrill of
excited expectancy ran through her. Three young
men had entered to shoot for a bottle of wine. She
recognized the voices of Jules Ardonne, Henri Bon
naret and her newest lover, Raoul Cornichon, ali
as she knew—excellent shots. Quickly she put tha
little sticks behind the target, while they were de
ciding which was to shoot first, and Jean was load
ing the pistols. From the front of the gallery it
could not be seen that the target did not stand per
fectly square. Tbe choice for first shot fell upon
Raoul. From her recess she could plainly hear all
that was going on, though she could neither see
nor be seen. She chuckled to herself, for it seemed
antr
quite a poetic dispensation of fate that the lover
should, unconsciously and innocently, be tbe means
of removing the husband. Raoul fired his shot and
with the echoes of it mingled a husky cry of
" MURDER I HELP I”
from the back room. Marie, when she heard that
cry, turned a shade paler, but had all her wits
about her, and even smiled as she busied herself in
snatching the little sticks away, swinging the tar
get free, and rubbing from its back the faint marks
that had indicated the precise points where the
points of the sticks should rest to put the iron plate
at the proper angle.
All that was but the work of a few seconds, yet
before she had finished it the sound of a second
shot, that time from the back room, and another
cry of “Murder,” rang upon her ears. She dashed
into the room. Two men lay upon the floor,Victor
and Gabriel, the head of the latter supported by
Raoul, who still held a pistol in his right band.
The sight dazed her. Two killed ! That second
, shot! She could not understand it.
This is what happened. Just before that fatal
shot in the gallery was fired, Gabriel, exasperated
by constant, losing, was seized by a gambler’s su
perstition that he was sitting in an unlucky seat,
and refused to continue playing unless the land
lord would change places with him. To this Victor
laughingly assented, confident of fleecing him in
' any seat, and they had just exchanged places when
Raoul’s bullet came, directed by Marie’s wicked
skill, to find its billet in his brother’s breast. Raoul,
alarmed by the cry, which he knew was his broth
er’s voice, snatched up a loaded pistol from the
loader’s shelf at his hand and ran in to his succor.
He found Gabriel dying on the floor and, jumping
at the conclusion that he bad been shot in a quar
-1 rel by his antagonist at the card-table, instantly
planted a bullet in the heart of the landlord.
The police, summoned by the unusual cries,
quickly entered the apartment. They found the
two men, who had been shot, already dead and Ma
rie, on her knees before Raoul, weeping and plead
ing with him:
"Forgive me ! Oh ! Raoul, forgive me. I did not
mean it for him, but for Victor 1”
A shrewd detective, taking his cue from the ad
mission in her words, soon found how her crime
had been perpetrated. Raoul and she were both
1 sentenced to imprisonment for life.
A BOLyfflpOST.
The Fortune which Mr. Lard
ner Left Behind.
The Plot to Provide an Heir to an
Estate.
The Forger and his False Wife
Face to Face.
How Lawyer Quitzow Wreaked
His Kevenge.
In 1830, a Mr. Joseph Lardnor came to Harrogate,
a famous Summer resort in Yorkshire, England,
for the benefit of his health. There he met a Mr.
Jessup and his son and daughter. Mr. Jessup was
a veterinary surgeon and in comparatively humble
circumstances. Mr. Lardner was a bachelor of
about fifty. He took a fancy to Richard, Mr. Jes
sup’s son, and, as he was wealthy and had, as he
said, no relative in the world of whom he knew, he
proposed to adopt the young man. He purchased
a fine dwelling near Bedale and, shortly after tak
ing up his residence there, died, leaving all be had
in the world to Richard Jessup, or Lardner, as he
was to be called thenceforth.
Richard was in his twenty-second year, and had
been educatedffor a surgeon. After he came into
possession of his property, he insisted on his fa
ther and sister’s making their abode with him.
The elder Jessup was becoming infirm, and within
a year of his removal to his son’s house was seized
with paralysis, which ended in death.
Emily Jessuo was her brother’s senior by a year.
She was a good-looking yoang woman, well edu
cated, and a clever housewife. The greatest affec
tion existed between her and her brother, and their
lives were very happy.
A NEW FRIEND.
In September, 1832, Richard met a Mr. Hartley at
the house of a friend. Mr. Hartley was an attract
ive man of about thirty, said to be possessed of in
dependent means, and residing in London. Rich
ard took a liking to his new acquaintance and in
vited him to Scar, as Richard’s residence was
named. The result was that Hartley paid atten
tions to Miss Jessup, and before a month was over
was her accepted lover.
He left Scar in the early part of November, with
the understanding that he was to return for the
Christmas holidays, and on the day preceding
Christmas he returned accordingly, to remain over
the New Year. Richard, his sister and Mr. Hartley,
accepted an invitation to spend New Year’s eve at
the house of a friend a few miles away; but during
the afternoon Mr. Hartley was taken sick and re
mained at home. As soon as Richard and his sister
had departed, Hartley went to the library and locked
himself in. Then he began to make a thorough
search of all the papers and documents on which he
could lay hands. He seemed to be amply provided
with the means of opening locks and to know where
to look for things of importance. Ho took notes
freely, and long before midnight had finished his
work. Then he retired to his apartment. Next day
but one, he departed.
ON A STILL HUNT.
He went first to Howegate, where he made dili
gent inquiries respecting the late Mr. Lardnor.
Thence he went to Hull and continued his inqui
ries in the same direction. Then he went to Lon
don anti hunted up a lawyer named Quitzow, whose
office was in Covent Garden. This man was notori
ous as the chosen advocate of criminals of all
classes, and Hartley’s business with him was di
rectly in his line. Having related to him the his
tory Qf Mr. Lardnor, so far as be knew it, he said:
“Now jb havo possessed myself of facts which
show that Lardner died possessed of property worth
not less than £IBO,OOO sterling, all of which he left
to his adopted son; that is, to the young man
whom be called his adopted son; for no legal pro
cess of adoption was observed. Now, I want to pro
duce a wife, to whom Mr. Lardner was lawfully
married within three years, that is, since his return
from South America, where he realized his wealth,
had a child born of that marriage. Then there
will be no difficulty in setting aside his bequest to
young Jessup and getting the property for the wife
and child. In that event, I shall expect a large
share and those who assist me will be liberally re
warded.”
A SUGGESTION.
"I understand you,” was Quitzow’a reply; “and
you come to me for my aid. You shall have it, but
it is a very risky and difficult piece of business. You
see, in accordance with the law. there must either
be a marriage by banns, or by special license from the
bishop of the diocese in which the marriage took
place. In either case the difficulty is great. You
can’t undertake very well to bribe a bishop. Nor
can you very well engage to make a whole congre
gation believe that three Sundays in succession cer
tain banns were published, which were never
published. Nor can you show the marriage
by banns or otherwise, without producing tbe
usual book in which such things are registered.
Then again, in either case, you must have a min
ister and his registry of the ceremony, and the sig
nature of the parlies and the witnesses. It is a very
nice and complicated piece of work which you
contemplate.”
•• I admit it,” replied Hartley, but it is a piece
of work that will be pay it can be done.”
"I see only one way in which it can be done,”
said Quitzow. " Where and when would you wish
the marriage to be placed ?”
"I find,” Hartley said, *• that in June, July and
August, 1829, Lardner resided in this city, at No. <
Chapel street, Islington. That would be a good J
time and place, and we should want a child over a
i year old.’*
WHAT WAS WANTED.
"Then we must find a woman with a child of
that age who is prepared to swear that she was mar
ried to Lardner under another name about the
time you mention, and who was actually married
about that time and has really had a child of the
desired age."
"I see what you mean," was Hartley’s answer,
" and I think I shall be able to accomplish my de
sign."
Hartley at once went about this bad business and
after a few weeks’ diligent search found what he
wanted, as he thought, in the person of Mrs. Pear
son. This woman had married in July, 1829, and
according to her account her husband was a man of
the size.age and general appearance of a Mr. Lardner
as he had been described to Mr. Hartley and as he
knew him from a portrait of him at Scar. Hartley
, accompanied Mrs. Pearson to Bedale and then visit
ed Scar. One night, when the coast was clear, he
( introduced the woman into the house and allowed
her to see the portrait of Mr. Lardner. She was a
smart, intelligent woman and readily selected those
traits Jn the portrait which were most observable.
After this Hartley dispatched her to London. Then
by the aid of false keys he got possession of a min
iature of Mr. Lardner, several documents of a per
sonal nature, some bundles of old letters, a pocket
j edition of Shakespeare bearing Mr. Lardner’s name
on the blank page, and, finally, a gold headed walk
’ ins stick bearing the dead man’s initials. The docu
ments and letters Hartley placed in a small papier
mache box, locking it and throwing away the key.
On the blank page of the book, over the name of
Lardner, Hartley wrote " William Pearson, Jr.,"
closely imitating the writing of Mr. Lardner. Then
all the articles which he had selected. Hartley con
veyed to a safe place and next day took them with
' him to London. He gave them into the possession
1 of Mrs. Pearson and instructed her that she was to
represent them as being the property of the man
whom she married under the name of Pearson.
. THE PLOT WORKS.
There was a difficulty, however, to overcome. The
real Mr. Pearson was alive somewhere. Fortunately
j for the furtherance of the plot, he had left his wife
L a few weeks after the marriage, having been con
cerned in a swindling operation which had necessi
tated his escape from the country. He had never
returned, though he had twice written to his wife
from France. The only way was to meet this
difficulty boldly and trust to circumstances and
luck to elude any search that Pearson might there
, after make for his wife.
When all was prepared, Mr. Quitzow employed
another lawyer to write to Richard Lardner, ap
prising him of the existence of the widow and child
L of the late Joseph Lardner, and notifying him of
their claim to the estate. While Richard was con
sidering what he should do, Hartley arrived at
Scar and Richard made known to him the circum
» stance. Hartley pretended to be greatly surprised
and shocked and expressed deep regret and sym
pathy. He advised Richard to resist the claim to
the utmost, insisting that he owed a duty to him
self, his sister and his dead benefactor to have the
matter thoroughly investigated in a court of law.
"It is true," be said, "that the expense will be
very great, and in case of failure an extra burden
will then be placed upon you. It is also true that
many persons, nay, nearly every one, will say if
1 you litigate the woman’s claim that you are hard
-1 hearted and keeping a widow and her offspring out
r of their lawful inheritance ; nevertheless, this is a
thing oftoo great importance to be affected by mere
' sentiment."
' He said much more in the same vein, and while
he seemed earnest in urging Richard to contest the
woman’s right to the estate or any part of it, at the
same time he artfully introduced all the arguments
he could think of calculated to induce him to give
up the property in case the widow made out a case
without an appeal to law.
Miss Jessup, when informed of the facts, strongly
urged her brother to give up all rather than deprive
the woman and her child of what must rightfully
be theirs if the marriage was established. The re
sult was that, after all the evidence was laid before
him, Richard was satisfied in his own mind that
the woman’s claim was just and voluntarily sur
rendered the estate. At the same time Miss Jessup
insisted up releasing Mr. Hartley from his engage
ment, and she and her brother quitted the neighbor
hood, going none knew whither.
REVENGE.
Quitzow, the lawyer, soon found that he was to go
unrewarded for his aid in the plot and he sent for
Hartley. Hartley laughed in his face, and when
Quitzow threatened him with exposure, he said :
"If you ever use a threat to me again, Quitzow, I
will let certain parties, with whom you are only too
well acquainted, know who it was forged a certain
document, and then the time which the forger will
spend in this country a free man will be very
limited."
Though Quitzow gnashed his teeth with rage, he
dared not say anything more; nevertheless he re
solved in his heart to get square with Hartley. He
put on a calm exterior as soon as possible and said :
"You are not going to leave me out altogether.
Hartley ? Am I not even to receive a reasonable fee
for the advice I gave you ?"
"Now you talk like a sensible man," Hartley re
plied, "and here is a couple of hundred pounds for
you."
In the meantime Mrs. Pearsou, assuming the
name of Lardner, took up her abode at Scar. She
was essentially a vulgar woman, utterly without
education or refinement, and her neighbors shunned
her. Moreover, it was soon noised abroad that she
was in the habit of drinking. This did not sur
prise the neighbors so much as the discovery, later
on, of the fact that the widow had been privately
married to Hartley, who thenceforth made Scar his
headquarters. He brought thither hosts of friends,
all of a doubtful character, and high revel was kept
every night.
While things were going on thus at Scar, Richard
Jessup and his sister had removed to a small coun
try town in the East Riding of Yorkshire. Richard
began practice as a physician and surgeon and
managed to make a decent living from the outset.
Neither he nor his sister ever had an idea that any
imposition bad been practiced, and both were con
tent with their reduced circumstances.
PREPARING FOR VENGEANCE.
But things were transpiring elsewhere of vast im
portance to all the parties concerned. Quitzow was
not going to let his vengeance sleep. Through some
of the criminals who were his clients, he learned
the whereabouts of Pearson, the real husband of
the woman who had passed herself off as the widow
of Joseph Lardner. The lawyer resolved to see the
man himself and arrange for a grand stroke of re
venge. Pearson was at Dunkerque, in France, act
ing there as an agent of persons engaged in the
smuggling of various commodities into England.
Quitzow went and saw hir man.
Pearson had heard of the lawyer before and stood
in no dread of him, as he knew him to be a man to
be trusted, as a rule, where any villainy was con
cerned.
Quitzow related to Pearson all the circumstances
known to the reader, not forgetting to add as a fact
calculated to arouse his hearer, that Hartley was
living as the husband of Mrs. Pearson. Pearson
was greatly enraged and swore speedy and condign
vengeance on his wife and her paramour. The next
moment he saw that to be too hasty might spoil a
good thing, but he kept up a pretense of anger and
effectually deceived Quitzow, shrewd as he was and
accustomed as he had been for many years to read 1
the motives and objects of the most deceptive
scoundrels. 1
"I have some very important matters on hand 1
just now," said Pearson; "but just as soon as I '
get through with them, I will venture across and 1
see you in London, and then we will arrange every- (
thing. <
A VISIT TO SCAR. t
Quitzow departed satisfied, having first advanced i
Pearsou £SO, to enable him to close up his business ’
as soon as possible. As soon as Quitzow was gone, 1
Pearson crossed the Channel, and started without <
delay for Yorkshire. When he found himself at s
Dedale, he paused for the first time, and began to l
OFFICE, NO. 11 FRANKFORT ST.
l ! arrange his plans. The next day was Sunday, and
he strolled down to Scar, roaching the village just
I as the people were going to church. He walked
f toward the upper part of the churchyard, where a
stile led into the fields, and, passing over it, went
' down through the grass into the valley. At the
1 bottom was a stream, crossed by a wooden bridge.
’ It was Summer, and the sun was hot. Pearson
went down by the side of the bridge, and sat on
the edge of the stream, watching the perch and
roach as they sported in the waters. He heard a
voice overhead, and looked up. A man and woman
1 were standing on the bridge, looking at the stream
1 and engaged in earnest conversation. The woman
turned her face toward Pearson, and he recognized
his wife. She, too, evidently recognized him, for
f she drew the man away, and they passed over the
bridge. Pearson stood up and watched them, peer
’ ing cautiously over the bank. Twice the woman
turned and looked before she and her companion
passed out of sight.
‘ The same afternoon, Pearson found his way to
L Scar, and, turning into the coppice which ran by
’ the side of a small park in which the house was
’ situated, got a good view of it. Lying concealed
thus, an hour or two passed by, when the man
1 whom ho had seen with his wife rode from the rear
of the dwelling, and went through the iron gates
into the road, along which he went at a hard gallop.
MAN AND WIFE.
I
Pearson then scaled the wall of the park and made
, his way toward the house, concealed by the shrub
. bery. He saw the windows of a sitting-room open
to the delicate sward which grew close up to the
f walls. Keeping among the shrubbery, he moved
* toward one of these windows, listened, and then
i stepped boldly in. The room was unoccupied. He
. went stealthily across the floor toward the door
i which was ajar. Beyond was the hallway with the
i main stairway ascending to the galleries. Every
j thing indicated wealth. He sat down in a luxurious
! chair and gazed around on the furniture, the pic
tures, the thousand and one attractive things which
were scattered here and there, even the owner of
of which he did not know.
a
Suddenly he heard a footstep. He arose and
( turned toward the door. It was pushed open and
a woman, elegantly attired, entered. He turned
half round and as he did so the eyes of the woman
fell upon him. She paused, but not a muscle of
her face moved.
" Don’t you know me ?’* he asked, making a step
j toward her with his fingers nervously twiching.
" Who are you, sir, and what are you doing
here ?’’ she asked in a firm voice.
"lam your husband," he said; "your lawful
husband, and came to share all this splendor with
* you ’’
She turned toward the open door and shouted
" Murder, help
' Pearson made a bound toward her, but she passed
into the hallway and closed the door.
' There was a rush of feet outside and the door was
thrown open. The woman entered with half a
dozen men servants and grooms closing around
5 her.
"Put this man out," she said, "and, if he uses
5 any violence, hand him over to the constable."
Pearson put himself into an attitude of defense,
i but the men whom Hartley employed were not of a
‘ sort that feared any man, living or dead. They
seized Pearson, and, despite his struggles and
threats, and his assertion that he was the master
’ there, he was hustled into the open air and across
the park into the highway, into which he was
1 pitched without ceremony. The gate was closed
upon him, and two of the most dangerous-looking
* of the servants lounged about inside to resist any
’ attempt Pearson might make to reSenter.
, THE END OF IT ALL.
j But be made none. Instead, he went off down
> the road. That night Hartley did not return home,
j and at daylight the next morning he was found a
mile from the gates, lying in the ditch, dead, with
his skull horribly fractured. His horse was miss-
> ing.
The horse was found two days later at Kirkby-
Lonsdale, in the possession of a man who had
i bought it for ten pounds from a person whom he
described. An hour later, this person was captured
on the road to Sedbergh, and was, as the reader has
rightly conjectured, Pearson.
The rest of the story is soon told. The disgrace
ful facts by which Pearson’s wife came into posses
sion of Scar, were revealed, and the property left by
Lardner went back to Richard Jessup. The woman,
Pearson, was sent to Botany Ray, and her husband
was convicted of murder and hanged at York.
Quitzow’s connection with the case was not clearly
disclosed, and the lawyer whom he had employed
satisfied the jury that he acted in the matter in
good faith. Hartley turned out to be a notorious
sharper who had managed, on more occasions than
one, to get into the society of good people, and had
always profited thereby in some form or other.
Ztival Bakers.
MICHAEL’S LOAVES ARE AS HARD
AS BRICKS.
Michael Larno and Francisco Bartoldo are rival
Italian bakers. Michael, it appears, undersells
Francisco in his own house. This, if not a breach
of law, is of etiquette and honor.
Francisco said he lived at No. 113 First avenue.
On the 12th inst. the prisoner (Michael) assaulted
him. He struck him first with his fist on the face,
then with some hard substance, perhaps one of his
hard-baked, burned, long brick loaves. All Michael
said when he assaulted him was, "Don’t you come
any more hero to sell your bricks."
"You sell bread, or bricks, too?" said Michael’s
counsel.
"Yes; to a party up-stairs."
" And you sell it down-stairs ?"
Francisco nodded his head.
" That was the cause of the trouble ?"
Witness again nodded.
"You went in his store and offered to bet a keg of
lager your bread was better than his ?"
"No, sir."
" Wasn’t there a keg of beer bought, and the bread
was cut in two ?’’
" No, sir."
" Wasn’t there a loaf of bread cut in two ?"
"It was broke over my nose. There was no bet
at all."
" What was the effect of the blow ?" counsel
asked.
" When the blood flew I fled down stairs."
Defendant said: "We are both in the same busi
ness. Francisco bothered me a good deal about his
bread, bragging that it is the best in the world. He
bet a keg of beer, and brought the keg in after the
bet was made. The bread was cut in two. After
that was done he didn’t want to pay the bet for the
keg, and made a motion as if to strike me, and I
got in the first blow. The trouble was, I sold my
bread a cent cheaper than Francisco sold his bricks,
that were no good."
Michael was fined $5.
Sub the Company.—James Boyd,
driver of a bobtail Seventh avenue car, ran over
Francis Campbell, a child eight years of age. He
was arrested on Wednesday, and no one connected
with the company came near to bail him. Thurs- '
day the child died, and Boyd was committed with- 1
out bail, and the coroner was notified to hold an ‘
inquest. Justice Gorman, in committing the ]
driver, said the company that ran a bobtail car was 1
more to blame than the driver. The law permitted 1
such cars to be run, and plenty were to be found to 1
take the place of drivers. But a man who was both i
driver and conductor, kept on the constant look out ]
for passengers entering and leaving the car, making
change and bothered with boys jumping on the (
car and blocking the steps and ringing the bell to |
stop, made the task of looking out while driving
next to impossible to prevent accidents. The man (
was not so much to blame as the company, but the (
law held him criminally responsible for the acci- *
dent. Civilly, the law can hold the company re- 1
sponsible for damages, but no money can bring t
back life. I
PRICE FIVE CENTS-
IN THE RAIN.
BY MINNA C. SMITH.
Fall swiftly, rain, down on the sullen earth—
I love this darkness, and it brings me cheer j
For I mind me, ah ! I mind me,
Of a rainy day last year.
Last year? I know not—may be longer still;
I often think the months are each a year.
But I know that day was rainy,
And it brought me charm and cheer.
All the town was dull and gray and gloomy—
Ah me, thought I, how dreary is the street ?
Love came walking through the rainfall—
Strange that Love and I should meet!
All the raindrops sparkled into jewels,
Love smiled sunshine on the weary way—
So my heart is always happy,
Always on a rainy day.
grilling Storj.
■*w ME RACE.”
RELATED BY THE ACTORS.
AVICE’S STORY CONTINUED.
I thought that, when the enow came, I should
be far away from Woodgaie, and yet, now that!
the enow is here, lying in soft, white beauty
over the park and fields, lam here still. Nob
at Woodgate, of course -three weeks ago I left,
there forever—but still at Grangetown. HoW
could Igo away ? How could I leave the neigh
borhood now? I tried to go—indeed I tried.
I told myself that, far or near, he was nothing
to me ; I had no right to care whether ho lived 1
or died. I had done all I came to Woodgata
to do—all, and more than all ! I ought to go
back to Rosemount and forget it all. But T
could not go; I packed my clothes, I mad®
every preparation for departure, I left Wood
gate for the station, and at the station my
resolution failed me—l could not go. I sent
the carriage which had brought me to tha
station away. I even let the porter label my
luggage; but I stopped short there; I could
not go.
Leaving my boxes at the station, I walked
back into the town to look for lodgings. I did
not care what people thought or said of me.
What did it matter if they thought I had been
sent away from Woodgate in disgrace ? I
should not have heeded the worst opinion of
me now. Could anything be too bad to say ot
me—l, who took vengeance into my own hands
—I, who had so cruelly treated the man whom
Mabel loved ? Oh ! if she could know, how she
would hate me 1 If I think of that, I shall go
mad, indeed. A
I obtained clean, comfortable rooms in a lit
tle cottage on the high-road ; the landlady is a.
widow without children, and she is very good
to me. I never go out during the day, because
I fancy that the people stare at me, and I am so
afraid of meeting any of the Woodgate people.
My poor little Violet 1 Does she miss ma
much, I wonder ? How dared I associate fa
miliarly with that pure, sweet, innocent child—
I, with the stain of deceit and treachery on
soul? And yet how I clung to her love for me J
It seemed to be my last link with my old pura
life, the life I lived at school and at Rosemount,
the life I lived before Mabel died and left me—l
say “ before Mabel died ” now—a few weeks
ago I should have said “ before she was mur
dered.” How can I say that now—now that X
too have the stain of murder upon me ?
But it was an accident. Before Heaven it was
an accident I It was through my fault that the
gun went off; but I did not mean to hurt him. 1
I would have died first, gladly, most gladly.
Ab, if I could only die now, and spare him fur
ther suffering 1 If, by ten times greater pain to
myself, if that could bo, I could undo what X;
have done, how gladly would 1 undergo
pain, how gladly restore his health and strength
at any cost to myself I
When I look back through the pages of mji.
diary, I shudder at the harsh, horrible—
horrible thoughts written there ; all the bitter
ness, all the hatred have died out of my heart;
I think it is so full of misery that there is
room for anything else; or, perhaps, he has
killed them by his generosity. For he lias been 1
generous to me. Whatever his fault, his crims,
against Mabel, he has been most generous ta
me, most forbearing, most thoughtful. But his
very generosity is cruel; I should have felt less
the most bitter reproaches, the most cutting
contempt, the fiercest anger, than I felt thosa
gently forgiving words of his. They broke my
heart, they bowed me to the very earthy they
will haunt me while life lasts, and always bring
with them the same pain, the same anguish.
And it is as it should be. No suffering, no paii<
can be greater than I deserve. Sometimes it
seems to me that I have borne all I can bear j
but, even when I think so, I know that thera
may be yet greater suffering in store for me.
If he should die 1 But no; I dare not, I will
not face that possibility yet. He is not worse,
and while there is life there is hope, and Heaveq
is very merciful.
And yet how faint my heart grows as I draw?
near the cottage every night, how my limbs)
tremble and my pulses throb, aud my lips quiveu
and grow parched until speech becomes an im
possibility, and I can only look at Mrs. Mason in
silent entreaty 1 And she is good and pitiful,
and answers as cheerfully as she can; and ones
or twice Mr. Cole has come out and spoken
to me kindly and pitifully, and sometimes,
when I stand trembling in the little passage, I
heard his voice, low and faint, but never
plaining, never fretful.
Sometimes he is a sfiade better, sometimes a
shade worse; sometimes I hear faint moans ol
pain wrung from him in h s agony, for he suffers
terribly, and all night long afterward they haunt
me aud I cannot shut them out.
Oh, the terrible nights, how I dread them !
The days are bad enough, but they are elysiuru
itself compared with the torture of the nights,
with their awful stillness and darkness anct
wakefulness. But even the wakefulness is
better than sleep, such sleep as mine, hauntedl
as it is by such awful dreams of the past and
the future—dreams in which I hear Mabel ours®
me for my self-imposed vengeance on her lover,
in which I see Russel Carew wounded, dying
dead, with wide-open reproachful eyes follow
ing me wherever I go, in which I see myself a
criminal in the dock, charged with murder, and
my dead sister bearing witness against me.
From such dreams as these I wake in bound
less terror, trembling and ice-cold in every
limb, only to be haunted in my waking hours
with visions as terrible until the blessed day.
light comes again.
Sometimes the awful thought strikes me that
all my future life, be it long or short, will be
thus haunted; and then it seems to me that I
dare not face it, that a few months now must
end it, or I shall go mad. But, when I think 01
it quietly, something tells me that I shall not
live long enough for that last dreadful alterna
live. I, who used to be so strong and well that
rothing ever tired me, am soon exhausted now;