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Ir llTr H Olli V JUiJi 1J jy X/jJLI vvvbwl/> ._ - «, 4<^ y _<aC ir'«^Wwig ßßtefc ~ . iS!!M|®|fc-.U-’fc t^^^^^ySEMMIK*WBB!IM|^!±: ryc ~t*'-'? >-^23r ; P® : ?*S''\llL^sS?s' s SSwSv®^WHHa®:4l?g r i^-^'.' ■ ■ <"'>■ : • ji rrwirtifiuKi..#--—i.-jigf'L ..Z^/IHv^kl^*; m; 'ts'.s? PUBLISHED BL A. J. wnUANOM M VOL. XLII.--NO. 2,’?' Entered at tFe Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Matter. the 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 M i’Sjc and the Drama. The Dispatch is sold by all News Agents of the city and suburbs, at FIVE CENTS A COPY. TERMS FOR MAIL SUBSCRIBERS: SINGLE SUBSCRIPTIONS... $2 50 a year TWO SUBSCRIBERS 400 “ FIVE SUBSCRIBERS 900 “ ALL MAIL SUBSCRIPTIONS MUST BE PAID IN AD VANCE. POSTAGE PAID EVERYWHERE BY THE DISPATCH OFFICE. Address NEW YORK DISPATCH, Post Office Box No. 17 7 45. PLAYS ANFpITyERS. BERNHARDT’S ART. A Little Man’s Opinion—“A Warmer and a Corker”—Tlie Nature of Bern liar <lt— Her Mental and Physical Attri butes — Fedora — A Psychologic Study—Cold Art, etc., etc. BY JOHN CARBOY. I met a little dry goods salesman last Thursday Who was just then trotting back to his counter and yard stick exercises from his noontime lunch. He is by no means an ignorant sort, is this same dapper diminuendo in the human scale. He is a chance mine—one of the accidents of acquaintance that befall the theatre goer during the entre act of a performance—and generally in some adjoining barroom. A pick-up acquaintance, one might say, which , continues itself by the same accidental process which first gave it existence. I never met him by appointment; never think of him when he is out of sight, never anticipate meet ing him again, and yet as surely as the days come and go, do meet him. This time he was as bright and smiling as a May morning. “Seen Bernhardt 1” he said, as ho subsided in his trot and came to a dead halt in front of me on the pave. •'Well ?” “I say I took her in last Monday—had a standee against the back wall of the orchestra until a fellow over in a side seat fainted and was carried out by his friend and the ushers; then I popped into his seat and was buukidory the rest of the evening. ” "Well?” ••I say, look here, she’s a great woman—eh ?—but she is not as warming for a fellow, you know, as that other Fedora—you know who I mean ?—what's her name?—ah-Fanny Davenport, But—but good lord !” “Well ?” ••But if Sally isn't a warmer, she’s a corker. She cost me ••A sidewalk SCRATCH— "a two-dollar admission—you know. I don’t catch on in French for a cent, but if I'd never hoard Fe dora in English, this woman’s bye-play would have pautomimed it into my understanding. But I dpn’t believe there’s enough sincerity in her entire eyetom to keep a Sunday-school boy’s eye open.” And presently my dapper little'accidental trotted off toward his store and yard-stick exercises. But I didn’t forget his critical analysis of her Fedora* Fur him—it wasn’t a bad one. fie summed up all hia'impressious of her performance in these words: •• She isn’t a Warmer, but she’s a Corker.” Now putting this fellow’s expression into other and more intelligible phrase—let me say right here, that he wasn't far out in his estimate of this, the greatest living artiste of the French stage. Not only the greatest artiste, but probably the most erratic, as a woman, the French stage has ever known. She is a typo of vitalized Inconsistency—as a wo man; a materialized example of uncertainty in her social and business devices. She takes, and makes not infrequently shrewd use of the most unexpected methods to keep herself in the foreground of publicity. She does not propose that the name of Sarah Bernhardt shall perish from off the face of the press, or vanish from the daily comment of current gossip. To her, imprimis, to be talked of, is the appetizing sauce of her daily life. Secundus— not to be talked of—means to her— torture and oblivion. THE HISTORY OF THIS EXTRAORDINARY WO MAN’S CAREER, professional and social, is in no sense suggestive of romance. From a childhood of poverty to her present condition—in the progress from obscurity to fame—Sarah Bernhardt's history is the record of hard, clean-cut fact; cold.and unadorned fact. There is no more romance, sentiment, ideality in her nature now, than there was when she was a little Parisian waif. But there was then latent, there is now active in her composition, one supreme element—Audacity— a quickness of comprehension; a contempt for other formulas of progress than her own. If all roads lead to Rome—she is the woman who will have a road of her own —and you may be sure It is a road in which there will be, nor can there be, any other traveler—while she lives. She is distinctively Sarah Bernhardt. She is not "a Warmer”—and the dapper little salesman was right. An artiste ? Yes, surely; and such an artiste as will not be born unto the American stage until America shall have become as old in art and litera ture as France. Art has no place in the backwoods; Nature is there in ail her primitive strength, but until she be comes the wedded brido of Civilization, legitimate Art can havono birth. But when Art does come to the front, how she brightens, beautifies, develops Nature! As is the rough diamond in the hands of the lapi dary, so is Nature in the control of Art. You see, you have Bernhardt in Fedora, in Ca mille, in Frou Frou or in Hemani. Well, what then? Do you draw your wraps about your dress suit, over and around the immaculate whiteness of your domestic-finish shirt front, and go forth into the night, and for an instant imagine that you have been for THE PAST THREE HOURS HELD IN YOUR SEAT and your being enthralled by the realism of this woman’s portrayal of character ? Are you wondering at her marvellous fidelity to the natural; at the tremendous force of a passion ate nature, which is the creature of its own will, and which dominates, directs and vitalizes alike her utterance and action ? Notwbit of it. She is not a •' warmer” of that sort. But she does arouse you to a pitch of enthusiasm as you have been aroused by no other actress; she does hold you in her thrall, and until the curtain falls on the final act of the play your mental organ ism is as much under her control as if it were a pieee of putty. Well, if she is cold, calculating, is devoid of feel ing or sympathy in her nature and in her acting, what is the secret of her marvelous power? Genius? oh, no 1 Genius is a thing of impulse, fitful, ingenuous, spasmodic—and accomplishes its purpose without knowing why. If it succeeds, it is a thing of elation, unselfish, and is happy in hav ing done a great work which will benefit some one else. Oh, no, not genius in this instance. Talent, then? Perhaps, partially— it may be wholly. Genius jumps at a conclusion—dives at it as a boy desperately clutches at a fly on the wing, Talent never leaps. It goes slow, and if it stum bles it is not through any lack of forethought. It has no emotion, there is nothing of rashness in its composite and it don't enthuse. With the Bernhardt, acting is simply Art—that quality of Art which is born of discipline and ex perience in the greatest school of acting as a busi ness, in the world —that of France, that of the The atre Franoaise. Than Fedora there is no other character in the whole range of modern French dramas which in its conditions is so thoroughly fitted for the exposition of Bernhardt’s artistic methods. VICTORIEN BARDOU can never duplicate it; there is more inherent strength in the third act of this melo-dramatic nightmare. Fedora, than there is in the entirety of the more pretentious and spectacular elaboration of Theodora. In both, the sensual is predominant; in one there is the very reek of lechery—the unsavory taint of the baser grade of human passion. So it is with Camille—but in Dumas's apotheosis of this saint of the Quart er Breda, there is lees of the rampant lechery of the panther; less of the fickle whims of desire, than in this Russian Fedora. Yet not even a Matilda Heron, with all her vulgar animalism, could have made of Fedora what she did of Camille—a coarse and untidy commoner of the bagnio. Her Camille compared with Modjeska’s—or with Jean Davenport’s was as musk compared with step hinotis. Clara Morris has given in her all-around-the-stage Camille and Frou Frou an inkling of what her per formance of Fedora would be—a thing of bad teeth, unwholesome smiles and sudden and blinding flashes. And it would be a draw game between the Morris and the Bernhardt, which could revel in the longest waits between acts. Bernhardt has no sensuous charm of personality to recommend her sweetly to the sense of enjoy ment. She is not built that way. No woman with so small a share of physcal charms has attained •uch magnificent triumphs and SWAYED WITH SO IMPERIOUS AND EXACTING A POWER, the audience of a theatre, as Bernhardt—excepting perhaps Charlotte Cushman. But she was tragic— never melodramatic—and tragedy is by no means beautiful in feature. One would never covet the possession of a Cush man, except for the name of being the chert ami of an abnormal development; ’no one would be crazed with an ecstacy of adoration for Bernhardt because of her beauty. Yet, as she is seen in Fedora a colder and less impulsive man than ,Loris Ipanoff would yield and become the very slave of her beguilement. As Fe dora, Bernhardt is no longer a being of long arms, thin face, Hebraic nose and angular form. The touch of a Wizard Art has tranformed her and thrown over our eyes avail which we see the materiali zation of a sensuous, passionate ideal. l«et it is nothing but THE PERFECTION OF SIMULATIVE ART, All these.expressions of motive—the wild grief over the dead body of her murdered lover, her sav age thirst for revenge, her hatred for Ipanoff, and having lured him into confession and declaration of bis passion—her change to the madness of love, and with all the atmosphere impregnated with the swelter of lustful nature longing for the gratifica tion of its appetite—and the awful ending, the agony, remorse, despair, with the ghastly death by poison—all these passions and baser traits of hu man nature at its worst—are only the simulations of art by a woman—who when she passes from the scene is no more fatigued than if she had been her self an uninterested spectator of a series of stereop. tican views—and having no more feeling in or idea of the tremendous reality of the passions or a wo man like Fedora than a atone fence. Ido not know that any actress—artiste I should say—has ever trod the stage of any country and achieved such splendid success and memorable re sults in the potrayal of character, who possessed as little genuinely humanly intent, feeling or sym pathy in it than Bernhardt. If there ever was a woman whoso mentality and entire nature were so thoroughly fitted as the per manent abiding place, as the workshop—one might call it—of cold and perfect dramatic art; that art which seems almost to displace the realism of nature with its imitations of that realism—that woman is Bernhardt. The exactions and strain of a night’s performance which would bring hysteria to even the most robust of actresses, are to Bernhardt no more of a strai n than if she had sat out two or three games of whist, Ido not mean to imply that Bernhardt's art is mechanical entirely. It is A COMBINATION OF THE INTELLECTUAL AND MECHANICAL, but an art which has nothing of impulse in it. Her Fedora is a matter of delicate and careful study; of a complete and calculative analysis of all its elements; she has, in her study, as thor oughly and minutely dissected it, and laid bare all its nerve centres and sources of vitality—as ever a physician diagnosed a case or a surgeon performed an autopsy. She has done this in her way—and her way, like the quality of her art, is unlike that of any actress now upon the stage. The mo tor that drives the mechanism of her acting is intellect—an engine of which she holds the throttle lever with a firm hand. She has temper—but it cannot be called passion; she has obstinacy, vanity in abundance, the spirit of greed, great selfishness—but the existence of these attributes of her nature are never evon sug gested in her work. And in her work there is no waste of tissue. She never wearies herself. Stiois never strident; she neither seeks nor uses any of the devices of force to compel your admiration or arouse a deeper interest —she is too much of an artiste to make resort to any such tricks. There is no striking of attitudes—the theatric is ignored—there is nothing stagey in her action. This is the Bernhardt. The fires that consumed the Rachel will never destroy Bernhardt. The Dame aux Oamelias calculates; Phedre is the being of tremendous impulse. My little dapper salesman may think this Fedora isn’t •• warming.” But its cold perfection is decidedly pleasant * Baxter Street’s Custom. THE MEN ARE WAITED OF BE FORE THE WOMEN. Anna Whittaker went into a grocery store in Bax ter street to make her morning’s purchases. Luigi Barbaro, an Italian, who was there, created a dis turbance and fired the scaels at the proprietor of the store. She was hit on the head. The clerk of the grocery store said this gentleman (prisoner), came into the store, of which he had charge. There were three women in the place when he came in. After waiting on one, he went to wait on him. It is the custom in Baxter street to wait on men before the women. Before waiting on the other women, he asked him what he wanted. He said he was in no hurry, and walked around the store, and didn't seem drunk. He again asked him what he wanted. Ho said a quarter's worth of eggs. After he got the eggs, he said he would take a pound of bacon. Luigi said there wasn't a pound. He said there was. Luigi wanted his money back. He wouldn’t give it, because the bacon was cut. Luigi then began to pepper the grocery man with the egga, who tried to dodge them. Then he fired the weights, then the scales, which hit the woman. Luigi said; •• I came into the store of the previous witness and asked for eggs, and got them wrapped in a paper bag. I saw some bacon I thought I would relish and told him to cut up a pound. He cut a piece, not a pound, and we had words. It isn’t (rue I fired the scales, tut I fired the eggs at the boss, and it was an egg that hit the lady. I have been locked up three days. I hope the Court will be merci; ut” Luigi wae fined S2O lor this indiscriminate egg NEW YORK. SUNDAY. MARCH 20, 1887. (IMiLTC A RIGHTFUL HEIR. The Prisoner In a Paris Ben. Shipwrecked and Missing for Years. A LARGE ESTATE ALMOST LOST. A Rare Conspiracy Which Sig nally Failed. Henri Edouard Satigny, a life convict, has just died in France, at the age of seventy-six. For close upon half a century he has been a prisoner, having been convicted, at the age of twenty-eight, of the crime of murder. The circumstances surrounding the act for which he was condemned to life*long seclusion are of a very remarkable nature. Monsieur Noizay, a very rich man, died in Paris on November 3, 1838. Eight years before this, his only child, Clement, then eighteen years old, quit ted the paternal roof and went to sea. The vessel on which-he sailed was lost off the African coast, and nothing was ever heard of the young man up to his father’s death. The very day after, however, a letter arrived addressed to Monsieur Noizay, and signed by his son, announcing his arrival at Mar seilles. The letter recounted the shipwreck and the capture of Clement Noizay and others who sur vived the wreck, by Arabs, and their detention in bondage for years, and describing the means by which Clement had escaped and reached Alexandria and obtained a passage to Marseilles. The writer stated that he had taken passage in a vessel for Le Havre and expected to arrive in Paris about a cer tain date. The vessel was the brig •' Stanislas.” As already said. Monsieur Noizay was wealthy and his only known relatives were tour nephews— August Vernou, and Charles, George and Henri Ed* ouard Satigny, the children of Monsieur Noizay’s two sisters. The letter came into the hands of Henry Satigny, who, ior two years, had attended to his uncle s business affairs. He immediately called a council of his brothers and Vernou, for the appearance of Clement on the scene upset all their expectations of wealth. In bis absence—and the law. after so long a silence, presumed him dead—all the vast estate of Monsieur Noizay would be divided among his nephews, and Henry Satigny well knew, from his familiarity with his uncle's affairs, that be had left between two and three millions of francs. THE CONSPIRACY. To see the anticipated fortune snatched so unex pectedly from their grip, drove these four young mon almost crazy, and it was not surprising that they should attempt some desperate scheme to get pos session of the property. Some of them went so far as to suggest assassination, though, if nothing else had been left, it can hardly bo doubted that even at that crime they would not long have hesitated. But another plan suggested itself that would an swer equally well and prevent the conspirators from being stained with the blood oi their cousin. Henry Satigny was the one who originated the idea and propounded the scheme by which it was to be effected. The suggestion was, that Clement Noizay. on his arrival in Paris, should be decoyed to some secret place and kept there until his father’s estate was settled and the nephews had acquired their shares. After that, having no family ties to bind them, they would quit Paris with all they could realize and go somewhere to live where they would not be known and were not likely to be found. After they had thus sa'ely decamped, the young man was to be set at liberty. DOMRON’S DEN. The four nephews had had to work for a living aud they had not moved in refined society. Their fate had cast them among people of a low grade and they had not infrequently been associated with mon and women whose methods of life would not have borne scrutiny. It was by no means difficult, therefore, for them to find persons who, for a prop er consideration, would undertake the work in view, namely, the decoying away of Clement Noi zay, and his secure incarceration somewhere until the time came when he might be released with safe ty to the conspirators. Between the Rue Monge and the Rue Monffetard was an alleyoccupied by several old dwellings. In one of these dwelt Jacques Domron and his wife. Their bouse was large and comparatively comfortable for the locality, and their customers, or rather tenants, were men of a doubtful character, George Satigny had been to the place to visit a fellow clerk who Was in hiding, having abstracted certain moneys from his employer's safe, This snot snggested itself to GeorgA Saligny when it was aecided to get Clement out of the way. Henry and George, suitably dis guised, visited the spot aud saw Domron and his wife. THE PRISON CHAMBER. They readily consented to receive the person whom the visitors wanted to keep out of the way a time, .and showed an apartment, the eu trance to which was through a secret door hidden by the bed occupied by the virtuous couple. This apartment had evidently been used as a prison more than once. The windows were in the roof, the walls were massive, and a double door of great strength, well provided with bolts, was the only means of reach ing it. In the centre of the floor was a massive beam, firmly bound around which was a band of iron. To this iron was attached a ring, and from the cupboard Domron produced leg-irons, hand cuffs, a girdle and several lengths of chain. "You see,” said he, ••here is everything ready, so that, as soon as we have our man, all we have to do is to make him fast. He can shriek or hammer as long and hard as he likes. Still, if he gets too bad, we have at hand a straight jacket and a gag and I dare say a switch or two, with which we can tone him down.” For a sum of money Domron and his wife en gaged to receive their prisoner whenever he should be ready. Further than that, among the frequent ers of their house were men ready to undertake the job of decoying him thither. The services of three of them, named Guinette, Momrenny and Lalando, wore secured. The arrival of the "Stanislas” was awaited by Guinette at Le Havre, and Clement was at once accosted by him. Guinette represented himaelf as a friend of his father, come to welcome him. On reaching Paris, Guinette introduced him to Momrenny and La lande, and led him straight to Domron’s den, as suring him that his father had become very miserly and taken up his abode in an old dwelling which he had long owned. Once inside Domron’s abode, the mask was thrown aside, and by force Clement was conducted to the prison chamber and secured. INSANE. Owing to the delays almost insepurate from winding up a large estate, many months pass d and Clement was still a captive. Towards the close of the fifth month he became insane and Domron and his wife grew alarmed. Among ’he social outcasts who often sought refuge in Domron’s dwelling,} was a JDr. Vougeot. At one time be had been a prosperous physician but becoming involved in a criminal conspiracy had been convicted and sent to prison. After his release, he found his associates among ths criminal and debased, and was able to make a living out of their necessities and his superior knowledge. One day Clement was unusally violent. His howling was so terrific aud unearthly that bis jailers feared that the attention of the neigh, bors would be attracted and the public called on to inquire into the circumstances. In this strait, Domron bethought him of Dr. Vougeot, who happened to be in the house. "For twenty francs,” said the doctor, "I will quiet him in five minutes.” The money was promised and, securing the aid of Guinette and Lalande, the doctor administered to Clement a drug which in a lew minutes threw him into a stuper. Having got his fee. the doctor went off to spend it among congenial associates, COLD, STIFF AND PULSELESS. When Domron and his wife went in the evening to look at their prisoner, their horror was great to find him. as they supposed, dead. He lay cold, stiff and pulseless. Here was a dreadful predicament for them to be in, with the corpse of a murdered man upon their hands. After parsing an hour or two in a dreadful state of mind, they called to their council Guinette. "The man,” said he, is dead beyond a doubt, and all you have to do is to get rid of him.” “Ah, that is the difficulty,” said Domron. "There can be no trouble about it,” replied Guinette, "provided you are ready to pay to get the corpse out of the way.” Domron and his wife, after some higgling, agreed to pay Guinette, Lalande and Momrenny ten francs each to remove the body, and an additional ten francs for the means of conveyance. In the dead of night the body was removed to a carriage which was driven to the residence of Audolot, an eminent surgeon in the suburbs, to whom Guin. ette had frequently furnished subjects for the dis secting table. The ’‘subject” was safely delivered, and Dr. Audelot paid fifty francs for the body. DR. AUDELOT’S SURPRISE. When Dr. Audelot visited his dissecting room early next morning he was astounded to find that his subject was alive. He used restoratives, and in an hour or two Clement Noizay was able to sit up. The doctor soon discovered that the man was in sane. Here was a very unpleasant dilemma to be in. What was he to do ? The man was utterly irrational and unknown. The doctor followed the dictates of humanity, and resolved to take care, for a time at least, of the unfortunate being who bad coma into h s hands in such an extraordinary manner. He gave him nourishing food, provided him with suit able clothing, furnished him with a comfortable 'apartment, and placed an attendant in charge of him. Later he was removed to an insane asylum. Vernou, one of the late Monsieur Noizay’s neph ews. as the reader may remember, had among bis acquaintances several medical students, who, at th it time, were remarkable neither for their dili gf nee nor moralily. One morning he happened to , meet two oi them when they were on their way to fearless anlr visit tho very asylum in which Clement was con fined; and, with very little persuasion, Vernou was induced to accompany them. Among the patients there he RECOGNIZED HIS COUSIN, CLEMENT! Greatly surprised and alarmed, he resolved to ascertain whether he might not have been mistaken. In the evening he found a man, named Gevray, famous for his courage and strength, and induced ‘him to accompany him to Domron’s houee. When they reached the place, Vernou said to Domron and his wife, into whose small parlor he and Gevray were admitted: " I have come to see the man whom you have in carcerated here. You remember; I have been here before with Mons. Satigny.” Domron and his wife protested that it was too late, for the man was asleep, and that Mons. Satigny would not have any one see him. "I am going to see him,” said Vernou, •* before I quit this place.” Domron and his wife began to show fight and to use threats, but they were soon quelled when Ver nou and his companion showed that they were armed. ••Unless you will allow us to see the man we speak of,” said Vernou, " we will immediately give information to the police.” This threat had the desired effect upon Domron and his wife, and they admitted that Clement was not in the bouse. •• Lead us to the room and let us see for our selves,” said Vernou. Domron and bls wife protested, but at length they yielded and, with Vernou and Gevray as a body guard, they led the way to the prison chamber. Then Vernou was satisfied that Clement was indeed gone. .. A CLEAN BREAST OF IT. The next day Vernou visited Monsieur Montbard, a lawyer.and made a clean breast of the facts con nected with the conspiracy. The lawyer caused Clement’s removal from the asylum and placed him under private treatment, and in a month’s time his faculties were restored. Then Henri Satigny was notified that his cousin Clement was alive and well, and at the same time a proposition was sub mitted to him and his brothers and Vernou—to tho latter for the sake of form—to retire from their po sitions as claimants to the estate of Mons. Noizay. This they acceded to with an ill grace, glad, how ever, to escape prosecution for the abominable crime of which they had been guilty. And so Clement Noizay came into full possession of his father’s property. Learning the facts from Lawyer Montbard that it was through Vernou he had been discovered and returned to his rights, he freely forgave his cousin and bestowed upon him a handsome sum of money. REVENGE. Henry Satigny’e soul burned with envy and re venge. Vernou was living in affluence, while he and his brothers were outcasts and in poverty—Ver nou, the traitor. On November 15th, 1839, a Henri Satigny went to the residence of Vernou, in disguise, and asked to see him. He declined to go in, and Vernou came to the door. Henri, in an instant, plunged a dagger into Vernon’s breast, aiming at his heart, and then fled. As he rushed round the corner into another street, he was stopped by a gensd’arme and ar rested. He attempted to throw away the dagger, which he still grasped, and this led to his detention. Ono hour later the assassination of Vernou was made known, and do doubt existed in the minds of the authorities that the captured man was the as sassin. He sought to mislead the police as to his name, but the truth speedily came out, and finally the facts as now recorded were disclosed. Henri Edouard Satigny was convicted of the mur der of Alfred Vernou at the assizes of the Seine, in December, 1839, and sentenced to hard labor for life. As already announced at the outset, he paid the full penalty imposed. His brothers fled, as did also Guinette and bis associates, but Domron and his wife were.sent to prison for two years each, and died within a year. An Italian Row. AND THEY ALL SWORE ONE WAY. Mulberry street toward Park Row, is peopled by Chinese and Italians. The Chinese are very peaceable, but the Italians are always in hot water. It may not be known, but it is a fact they have standing counsel paid by the year to defend them, and if one happens to be complainant against a countryman, that's his luck to help pay to acquit the man he is prosecuting. When Angelo Tomaso came on the stand with a bound up head, he could not object to being froze out by counsel as he couldn’t te l how soon be might himself b© at th© bar to b© defended by thit special pleader# Angelo charged Dominico Tomaso an aged countryman with assaulting him. He said Do minico struck kim twice on the head with a hammer. He did nothing to him. The assault took place in a lager beer sa oon at 58 Mulberry street. "Before you were hit, how many people did you assault?” asked council. ••Not one.” "Look at these two men hero, who beat them?” "There were five against me. I don’t know these two men.” •• They know you, and one of them knows your fist. You left your mark on his eye, as you see. Now isn’t it a fact that you were in the place and threatened to kill every one there ?’* "No, sir.” Antonio Combinaro, residing at No. 44 Mulberry street, said he was in the lager beer saloon, No. 58, with some friends. While talking about their own affairs, the complainant came in and struck him a violent biow on the eye. The court could see the mprossion it left. It was still pretty black. Nicholas Mario said he was in this beer saloon, having a conversation with the old man, the prisoner, when Angelo rushed in and struck the previous witness. He interfered, and trying to make peace, also got a black eye. About twenty Italians were on hand to swear Doniinico out of trouble, when the court closed the case by finding him not guilty. —— Feminine Dromios. AN INCIDENT OF~WASHINGTON (From the Chicago News.) I was walking through a corridor ol the Capitol at Washington one day with a member of one of the largest wholesale hardware firms in New York—a gentleman whose manner would impress the most casual observer with his high-mindedness—when we came upon a woman whom I recognized as my companion’s wife. ••Why, Kate.” said my friend, “what are you doing here ? When did you come ?” The lady looked in a puzzled manner at him a moment, and said, not ill-naturedly; "I don’t know you, sir.” My friend looked more closely at her, and said: " Why, Kate, what do you mean ?” I saw by my friend’s face that he had reached the same conclusion that I had, that his wife had lost her reason. “Kate,” he finally burst out, “for God’s sake, don’t you know me, your husband ?” At this the lady drew back and looked frightened, protesting that she never saw him before. I tried to say something proper to the occasion, but before I could do so my friend had drawn a photograph of his wife from his pocket aud shown it to the lady, saying: *• See, Kate ! lam your husband. See this ?” •* Where did you get that, sir ?” said the lady, in dignantly. I never was so befuddled in my life, I wondered if I could possibly be dreaming all this. The lady wan most thoroughly frightened and trying to get away, while my friend was even more frightened, and was trying to detain her. It looked as if there was going to be a scene, so I drew my friend aside and advised him to lat her go until she reached some more retired spot. We fol lowed her, and soon saw her point us out to an offi cer of the Senate, whom 1 knew very well. The officer approached and indignantly asked wuat wa meant by our condct. An explanation followed, and it turned out that the lady was the wife of a very important gentleman in Washington. Of course, the most abject apologies followed, and then came my friend’s wife irom New York to veri fy his story. 'J he two families became very inti mate, but to this day neither husband is sure when he meets one of the ladies anywhere, except at home, whether she is his wife or not. Didn’t Know the Ropes. TRIALS OF A YOUNG MARRIED COUPLE. the London World.) A newly-married pair, who arrived at a celebrated Scotch watering place when accommodations were at a premium, had a mattress spread for them by a compassionate innkeeper, in one of his bathrooms. In the middle of the night the house was alarmed by loud shrieks proceeding from the nuptial cham ber. The young bride, wishing to ring for a serv ant, had caught hold of what she supposed to be the bell-rope, and pulled it smartly. Unhappily it was the cord of the shower bath, and forthwith down plunged a deluge of cold water. Her hus band caught frantically at another cord on his side of the extemporized couch, but the only response was an equally liberal deluge of water, this time nearly boiling hot. The unhappy pair then screamed in unison. When the servants came, they found tho floor of the room flooded with water and the wile was perched liko a monkey on her husband’s back, uttering tho most lamentable cries, while her good man was fumbling about in the dark trying his best to find the door. THE HAD SURGEON. Horrible Child Butcheries in the Name of Science. Mysterious Murders that Terror ized the People of Lyons. PHILOSOPHIC M. JACQUELIN. THE KNIFE-THROWER’S DISCOVERY. Startling Exposure of Fiendish Cruelty. From time to time, through the years 1832-3-4, the citizens of Lyons, France, were horrified and ex cited greatly by the discovery of a series of hideous crimes, the perpetrators of which baffled all detec tion, and which seemed as unnatural and purpose less, the work of sheer diabolism, as it is possible for any crimes to be. The victims were in all cases children and youth, of both sexes, ranging in age from six to fourteen years. In every instance the startling evidence of the crime was the same, sim ply the NAKED CORPSE OF A CHILD found in the middle of some dark, obscure street generally, though occosionally it would be discov ered in the midst of a thoroughfare, where it would seem almost impossible that it could have been placed wtthout observation. These ghastly discov eries were always made near dawn or in the later hours of the night. In some instances the little bodies had evidently been cold in death for several days, but in others they were still almost warm when picked up. In all cases the immediate cause of death had been the same. Some sharp instru ment had been driven through the spinal marrow at the base of the brain. But there was another uniformity in the manner of these horrible deeds, the inexplicability of which was overwhelming. Every one of the corpses had Buffered amputation of some member. Sometimes a leg was gone, sometimes an arm, sometimes only a toe or two, or a finger—or a pair of them. In all cases the amputations had evidently been performed by a skilled surgeon. Those who studied carefully the phases of these successive murders obaerved that the operations seemed to have been made in systematic series. Thus, in the Summer of 1833, it was observable that every corpse found had suffered amputation of either the right or left arm at the elbow joint. There were seven that had been thus mutilated. In the Autumn of that year, the joints operated upon were all knees—and there were nine of them. In 1832 there had been no operations upon joints, but three amputations of thighs, five of upper arms and eight of fore-arms attested the industry of the fiend engaged in this awful butchery. It was generally understood that this must all be THE WORK OF A MADMAN, but, whoever be was, so cunningly did he conceal himself that his identity was not even suspected. His victims belonged to all classes of society, and in no instance was there anything to encourage the suspicion that the crime had been perpetrated for any other purpose than a passion for operating upon a living body, with the subsequent disposition of the subject in the most convenient fashion by death and tossing away as worthless carrion when the operation was over. The physicians and surgeons of Lyons, alarmed by the manifest growth of a tendency, especially among the lower classes, to view them all with suspicion, energetically exerted themselves to un earth the mysteriously hidden brother professional whose revolting crimes thus endangered them all— for no one could doubt that skilful hands had done these bloody deeds. They offered a reward of 200,000 florins for the assassin. Dr. Auguste Desmard, a physician of high standing—whose only profes sional fault was that he had such a horror of blood that he never could be induced to perform a capital operation, or even to assist at one—headed the subscription of that great reward with the sum of 50,000 florins. Dr. Gottfried Dumreicher, a German surgeon of excellent reputation, added 20,000 florins, and Dr. Nicolai Vitarbo, an Italian, gave as much. Then th§ others subscribed, in proportion to their means. The ingenuity of the beet detectives of France was employed, but ALL IN VAIN. The mysterious butcheries still occurred at inter vals. Late in the Spring of 1835 the murderer’s experi mental amputations developed in a new direction taking off arms at the shoulder, and there were no longer the deadly thrusts in the spinal marrow. The little victims had simply been allowed to b[eed to death. By this time not a few physicians had fled from the city, fearing an outbreak of the mob at any mo ment, that might result in their butchery as sus pected persons. Of course, each, as he disappeared, was vehemently suspected of being the guilty one, and was followed and watched by detectives, but the innocence of each in .turn was demonstrated by the recurrence of the atrocities from the scene of which they had fled. Manifestly, the guilty one felt himself too secure from detection to care for flight. In the month of June of the year last mentioned, the vail was lifted, and in a most unexpected and startling way. M. Pierre Jacquelin, a well-to-do silk manufacturer of Lyons, had the good and ill for tune to possess a very pretty wife, at least twenty years his junior. His fortune was so far good that she was one of the prettiest, plumpest, most volup tuous-looking and light-hearted of women, who never, in the slightest degree, troubled herself or him about the possible infidelities with which a man growing old sometimes seeks to beguile, by new attractions, his consciousness of advancing age. And it was so far ill, that Madame Cora Jac quelin fully indemnified herself for any short-com ings in his marital relations toward her by kind re ciprocation of the very earnest attentions of A LOVER NEARER HER OWN AGE. M. Jacquelin more than suspected that such was the fact, but be wae philosophic and, after due deliberation on the subject, resolved to feign entire unconsciousness of what wae going on, so long as there was no public scandal to compel his cogniz. ance. An understanding to that effect, without words, seemed to have been arrived at between him and her, and the worthy pair got along very well together. They had one child only, a charming little golden haired girl seven years old, named Florence, who did not at all resemble him, but he was very fond of her, just the same. She looked much like a very dear old friend of her mamma’s, an Italian named Carlo Far ini, who had long been a “friend of the family.'* Farini was an actor, who had travelled much, possessed a great deal of versatility, had picked up many novel accomplishments in the strange coun tries he had visited and was a remarkably hand some fellow, athletic, agile as a cat and courageous. For eight or nine years past he had lived in Lyons, having seemingly given up his penchant for roving since making the acquaintance of pretty Madame Jacquelin. He generally had an engagement in one of the Lyon's theatres, but if he had not had no reason to trouble himself about means, so long as Cora loved him. One evening in June, 1835, he and Madame Jacquelin- were together in the room of the latter when the steps of THE INOPPORTUNE HUSBAND were heard on the stairs, coming up to her door. He had returned home unusually early from his piquet club at the cafe, where wont to spend his evenings, and they had been too deeply en grossed with each other to notice his entrance to the house until he was so close to the only door of exit that Carlo could no longer—as upon former occa sions—glide out to a closet on the corridor and thence slip away when the old gentleman had passed on into bis wife's appartment and the way was clear to the front door. “You must not let him find you here, my love,” exclaimed Cora, “for that would compel him to take notice of the situation.*' “Do not be uneasy,” answered her lover; “I have been prudent enough to look out for my line of retreat, in case of such an emergency as this.'* As he spoke, he donned his most indispensable garments very rapidly. His shoes had been kicked aside and he could not find them in the darkness. M. Jacquelin was already knocking on his wife’s door. There was no time to lose. In his stocking feet Farini slipped out of the window, seized the stout branches of an ivy vine that covered the gable wall of the bouse with its foliage, and working his way along it some twenty feet, clutched a limb of a big shade tree and swung himself over among its foliage, thirty feet above the ground. At that mo ment Madame Jacquelin opened the door for her husband, yawned sleepily and said to him: “How late you are to-night, my dear I” THE LOVER IN THE TREE-TOP listened uneasily to some sounds in the darkness below him. They seemed to be low, suppressed growls and the gnashings of teeth. He fancied that he could see a white form away down on the ground and two eyes that glared up at him expectantly, hungrily. There was nothing supernatural about that presence. He knew too well what it was. M. Jacquelin’s English bulldog, silent and ferocious, was down there waiting for him. Decidedly, it would be unwise to descend. He clambered across to the opposite side of the tree, waited until the moon camo out from among tho clouds sufficiently for him to see what he was doing, and succeeded in swinging himself into a second tree. In like manner he passed to a third and a fourth. That carried him beyond a boundary fence, out of reach of the disappointed dog, and ho descended to the ground. Of where he was ho had not the slightest idea, further than that he was in the open air, in some body’s garden, surrounded by a very high brick OPPICB, NO. 11 FRANKFORT BT. wall with sharp spikes set in its stone coping. A long, low brick house occupied one side of the en closure. A carriage-house and stable were on a second side at right angles with the house-. His arms were too tired for him to climb up the tree again and try some more of that adventurous aorial way. Clearly he had no other recourse left than to enter the house—at the risk of being discovered and MISTAKEN FOB A BURGLAR and make his way through it to the street. He tried tho carriago-bouso and stable, but they were locked up. Then be tried successively, three doors in the house, and the third proved to be unfastened. Being in his stocking-feet, and having naturally a step almost as light as a cat’s, his tread was noise lees, and the house seemed deserted. Moving cautiously he passed through two rooms, a hallway, and, gaining confidence as he went, was about to push open another door, when, as his hand was upon the handle of the lock, his motion was arrested by a slight sound beyond the door that seemed to him caused by the upsetting of a bot tle on a table. Listening keenly, he could hear somebody moving about, and muttering exclama tions of impatience. Slowly and noiselessly he opened the door, an inch at a time, until be had a full view of tbe apartment before him > and stood almost paralyzed by astonishment and honor. The room was a large one. Some twenty feet from the door, beneath a very strong light thrown down from large lamps under a bright reflector, were two operating tables, upon each of which a body—that of a child or youth, was extended. Between the heads of those tables stood a third, on which gleamed an appalling as sortment of knives, saws, and other surgical im plements. A tair, thin man, with a head bald like a tonsure, stood between the tables, holding in one hand a bottle and with the other hand mopping up some liquid spilled on the instrument table. He did not seem to bear the noise of the opening door. In an instant the truth flashed upon Farini’s mind that he was looking upon THE MYSTERIOUS ASSASSIN of tbe children, and that two victims together lay before him. Whether they were dead or only under the influence of some drug that stilled their senses, he could not tell, but he suspected that they were alive, from seeing the man lift their eyelids and look at the pupils of their eyes. As he looked, Fa rini’s eyes became accustomed to the light and he recognized, to his unspeakable horror, the smaller child on one of the tables as pretty little Florence, tho daughter of Madame Jacquelin, and, perhaps, himself. The tall, thin man picked up a long, keen knife, approached the little girl and stood balancing the instrument, ready to use it. Among the many queer accomplishments that Farina had picked up in the course of his wander ing life, was an extraordinary skill in knife-throw ing, that be had learned in Mexico, and from bis habits in Spanish-American countries, it had be come a second nature to him to carry a big, heavy, long knife, two-edged at the point and keen as a razor. When be escaped from Madame Jacquelin’s room that night he had left his shoos, but had not neg lected to take his knife with him, thrust, in its scabbard, under his waist belt. Now he drew it, stood sidewise to give free.play to his right arm, swung the long, ugly weapon by its point and meas ured his distance for throwing it. The next instant, just as tbe butcher was about slicing the lender flesh before him, Farini’s kniio flew like a dart of steely lightning across the room and TRANSFIXED THE ASSASSIN’S SKULL, piercing it completely from temple to temple. The wretch sank dead upon the floor, and Farini sprang across the room. Snatching up little Florence in his arms he satisfied himself in an instant that she was still alive and unhurt. Be gave but one look of startled surprise and horror at the other figure ex posed, a strange creature, that seemed a monster. Then he fled, with the child in bis arms, to the street and the front door of his mother's house, where his vigorous knocking soon roused the in mates and brought assistance. A servant was dispatched for the worthy physi cian, Dr. August Desmard, who was a near neigh bor, to come and care for the little girl. In a few moments tho servant returned reporting that she was unable to summon the doctor, whose front door was open, without entering the bouse, and sho was afraid to do that. Another doctor soon appeared and restored the child to consciousness, when she said that she had slipped out of the house, after her nurse supposed she bad gone to bed, had run out to see some little neighboring playmate and was on her way home when a cloak was thrown over her head, she did not know by whom, and after that sho knew nothing until she found herself again in her mother’s arms. By this time the gend’armes had arrived and Fari ni, frankly telling what he had seen and had done, led them to the house from which he had rescued the child. There A STARTLING DISCOVERY awaited them. The child-murderer was no other than Dr. August Desmard, the philanthropist, who was so tender-hearted that be could not be a sur geon, and who had offered a toward of 50,000 francs for the discovery of the assassin, to divert suspi cion from himself. From copious diary notes found among his pa pers, it was made perfectly plain that Le had for several years been insane upon the subject of am putations and the actual grafting on the human body of limbs and members, and had sacrificed a number of lives in his merciless experiments. Tbe little corpses that he had used ho got rid of by the ingenious contrivance of a trap-box under the seat of his carriage, which he could operate from the in side of the vehicle, so as to open its floor and drop the body through, while going at full speed, with out the knowledge of the driver and with scarcely a possibility of discovery. The figure on the other table was a hideous evi dence of the doctor’s infernal skill. It was that of a lad about fifteen years of age, that had been cut apart and patched together with fragments of other bodies in the most surprising fashion. One arm was reduced so that the wrist was but three inches from the shoulder. The other had been extended to nearly five feet in length by added sections, in which were included two elbow joints, and, to tbe infinite astonishment of other surgeons, those joints worked fairly well. The legs had been re modeled in the same way. Altogether the poor wretch was a startling proof that the operations upon him had been conducted with the most wonderful skill, and Dr. Desmard’s papers demonstrated that it bad been his intent, when he had completed his awful work, to exhibit him and confess what he had done in the interest of science. The tortures to which the lad had been subjected had made an idiot of him. and he could not tell who he was or how long he had been under torment. In a vague way he remembered that there had been two others, permanent victims, like him self, but they had died, and their bones were found in shallow graves under the stable floor, as was also a miscellaneous collection of arm and leg bones of children. The boy lived but a short time. Dr. Despard’s body was never given sepulture, having been given over for dissection, and his great fortune was confiscated for the municipal orphan asylums. Farini never fully confessed bow be came to ba in the doctor s back garden, but it was readily sus pected, and indeed merry Madame Jacquelin did not deny her knowledge of it when her husband died, which he did a couple of years later, when she became Madame Farini. Terrorized by a Spook. WAITING OiTgHOSTS REQUIRES NERVE. (From, the Dallas, Texas, News.) From the days of Cicero, who related the thrilling case of the two youths of Megara, and in fact behind Cicero’s days, stretching away back toward the dawn of the creation, ghost stories have been hand ed down through the mists of time, and have served, if no other purpose, the useful one of help ing to keep history spiced and otherwise em balmed. Virgil would have proved a shapeles wreck on the strand of the middle ages without its ghost story, and no first-class old play—as “ Ham let,” for instance—could prosper without one. In modern times, too, a rising city can no more afford to be without its ghost than a jaybird can fly without a tail. Kansas City has had several, and now Dallas wheels into line with a regular teeth sbattcrer, 40° below zero. The scene is laid in the Second Ward, and the cir cumstances, as related to a News reporter, are as fol lows: For some time back a good Christian family, who have an aversion to seeing their names in print, have heard unaccountable noises in their house at night, which recently have taken on more decided manifestations, as if a case of jim jams which es caped from its owner had found the latch-string on tho outside, and bad come to stay. In the latter stage furniture would be rudely thrown ground, and on more than one occasion the heads of the family would feel hands passed over their faces with —G. Whilliken I—all the clammy feeling of death. The man of the house informed the neighbors, and some of them kept watch, but they did not seem te be en rapport with the ghostly visitors, and they watched in vain. Last Monday night the climax of terror was reached, when, at the dreary hour w’hen church yards yawn, the same cold, clammy hands were passed over the iaces of the presiding family elders, and the next moment found the bed in which tho aforesaid elders lay whirling across the floor. The parties thus rudely treated by the unseen, jumpe I out of bed suffering from congestion, and spent the remainder of the night in terror and prayer, with the full blaze of a lamp beaming on their pallid countenances. Tbe gentleman who relates this experience says it is not all, some of the antics of the phantom being too queer for recital. Tho family moved out of the neighborhood, but the Second Ward, which is be ing prominently brought to the surface by the strange event, proposes to explore the mystery, and an opportunity is offered to young men of an in quiring turn of mind to tost their nerves. Some of the people of the neighborhood attribute the affair to a combination oi imagination and rats, but it is contended that imagination oi* that an army oI rats trained to han Hin : freight could not well move a bed and its two human occupants. PRICE Fl YE CENTS. AN OLD CEMETERY- BY MIRIAM LESTER. My feet now tread these quiet spots So hallowed by long years Of gatherad hopes—forget-me-nots That bloom amid our fears. Full many a heart hath weary grown, Full many a head hero lain In weariness and grief adown Finds blest surcease of pain. Not only age with tottering feet Hath reached this hallowed field. But youth and infancy full sweet Their tribute here did yield. As on the moss-grown stone 1 read The word of hope and cheer, Or pause to scan the text and heed Monition’s that appear. My eager thought would pierce tho vail That shrouds the days long sped, When lived and loved, or strong or frail. The forms we now term dead. Had time for them such sordid cares, Such longings and regret, Such strong temptations and such snares As now earth’s path beset ? Was life one grand and solemn strain. Or were the discords felt? Soared still aloft some heart’s refrain In chords that grow and melt? Nay, not to time or age is given To hold all joy or pain; And only at the gate of heaven Is strife and longing lain. BEWITCHING LOffl, BY A NEW AUTHOR. CHAPTER XVI. "I WILL MABRY MISS MEI.FORD, IF SHE WILL HAVE ME.” If Diana’s soft, sweetly-modulated voice were a knife it could not have gone straighter to Lord Guy’s heart than it did. It stabbed him, one of those thrusts which, though they may not bo fatal, last in the shape of a scar for a lifetime. Lome and Seymour Melford. Seymour Mel fore, the son and heir of the millionaire I That was the reason, then, why she had insisted that she and Guy should be free—" quite free ’’—for three months. She wanted to see if Seymour Melford would propose to her ; if so, then sho would be free to accept him, to become the wife of a man who would, probably, be one of the richest commoners in England. If Seymour Melford did not propose, then she would have a second string to her bow in the shape of him self, Lord Guy ! This is what he thought as he stood smiling in the midst of the gay and brilliant throng in Lady Farnham’s drawing-room, and the thought was an agony! That Lome—the dear, sweet little girl, not yet even a woman—should be so false, so mercenary! That it should come so soon, too! Three months, she had said, but her love had not lasted one ! “Her love? No,” he thought as he leaned against a pillar and pretended to listen to a young sporting lord, who insisted upon talking about Gipsy and tho Grand Stakes—" she had never loved him! It was just a girlish Ireak, a whim! Yes, that was all 1” Then, with an aching heart, he recalled that scene in tho lane. How sho had nestled to him; how coyly and how sweetly she had put her lipa to his ! And now, a few days later, she was all but engaged-to Seymour Melford. The young lord’s voice buzzed, buzzed in Guy’s ears. “ And you are still backing Gipsy, Kendale ? You think it is safe to win ?” “It was only a girlish fancy, only fun, that was all,” muttered Lord Guy; then, seeing the blank amazement in the young fellow's face, he started. " I beg your pardon, Bruce. I was thinking of something else. Yes, I believe in Gipsy; but, for Heaven’s sake, don’t back him 1 I’m out of luck now, and it's not likely to change.” Then, leaving Lord Bruce amazed and puz zled at the sombre face and moody voice, Lord Guy strode up to Lady Farnham and said, “Good night” He meant to leave the room without a word to Diana, for his heart was sore, and he felt that his misery would "shine through his eyes;” but sho stood near the door, and held out her hand. “ Arc you going .” she said, and there came the softened look into her face, which was the only thing usually wanting in its rare beauty. “ I am afraid you have found the evening rather slow.” And her voice dropped to the low, confiden tial tone, which she assumed for none but him. “ No, no,” he said. He could say no more; for he dared not trust his voice, and made for the door. But it was fated that be should not escape even yet. In the hall stood Lady Farnham, speaking to one of the footmen, and she turned as Guy got into his overcoat. “ I thought you’d gone,” she said, looking at him with the half smooth, half motherly smile which he had grown to regard as hie right. “ Well, and you haven’t made up your mind yet, Guy?” “ What do you mean ?” he asked. The old lady smiled significantly, and laid her soft, white hand upon his arm. "Don’t dilly-dally too long, my dear boy.” He thrust his hands into his pockets, and look ed down at the ground. “I don’t know what you mean qnite,” he ■aid. “ I mean that if you don't take care the prize will slip from your grasp, Guy,” said Lady Farnham, gravely. “Don’t yon think that other men have eyes to see that she is one of the most beautiful girls in the world, dear boy; and that other men want some of the Melford money as badly as you do?” “ Diana Melford ?” he muttered. The old lady smiled. " You say that as if she were as old as I am, and as ugly,” she retorted, with a smile. " Yes, Diana Melford ! Take the advice of an old wo* woman who is silly enough to bo fond of yon, Guy, dear, and make her Diana Kendale as soon as possible, or you will wake up some fine morning to discover it is too late.” A quick shade passed over his face, and a hunted, worried look into his eyes. “You are in a great hurry to marry me, my lady,” he said, aud taking her outstretched hand, he raised it to his lips, and went out. It was a dismal night, and as ha lay back in a corner of his brougham, the wind seemed to laugh at and mock him. Fate, all tbe world, seemed against him, even Lerrie ■ Even I.or ris, upon whose truth he would have staked his hie ! What should be do? Should be write to her.