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Il \ JUOJ all JJJJJJ MJ r VOL. XLII.--NO. 40. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Matter. THE NEW YORK DISPATCH, PUBLISHED AT r NO. 11 FRANKFORT STREET. The NEW YORK DISPATCH is a Journal of light, agree able and sparkling Literature and News. One page is de voted to Masonic Matters, and careful attention is given to Music and the Drama. The Dispatch is sold by all News Agents of the city and Suburbs, at FIVE CENTS A COPY. TERMS FOR MAIL SUBSCRIBERS; SINGLE SUBSCRIPTIONS $2 50 a year TWO SUBSCRIBERS 400 “ FIVE SUBSCRIBERS 900 “ ALL MAIL SUBSCRIPTIONS MUST BE PAID IN AD VANCE. POSTAGE PAID EVERYWHERE BY THE DISPATCH OFFICE. t ACaress NEW YORK DISPATCH, Post Office Box No. 177 o. Emuiwsuwsmuia playslndllayers. “THE FALL OF BABYLON.” Something ofßre’r Daniel—Wiggins ami Daniel Compared.— The Troubleiome Cyrus Rex—The Glories of Babylon — Belshazzar as a•• Rounder ” — The Feast and its Revels —The Destruction of the City, Etc., Etc., Etc. BY JOHN CARBOY. As a prophet, Bre’r Daniel was not of the Wiggins tribe. Wiggina—our Wiggins—would have been a mere common everyday soothsayer, a sort of hand-me down astrologer, had he existed in the days of B. 0., when Nebuchadnezzar "did eat grass, as the oxan and his body was wet with the dew of heaven,till his hairs were grown like eagles’ feathers and his nails like birds claws." The Wiggins* didn't count for much in those days. When Bre’r Daniel got in his fine work in the prophesy and vision line, and in “seeing things*’ that nobody else ever dreamed of—the the soothsayers, and the rest of the hangers-on at the Court of Babylon took a back seat. In fact, he gave them a back set from which they never recov ered. " •• J " '' Whan King Cyrus, commanding his army, finally succeeded in taking a fall out of Babylon, Bre’r Daniel was at the hight of his fame as the only re liable, and by no means high-priced prophet in Assyria. The last bit of business he had in Babylon—that of explaining the meaning of “Mene Mene Tekel Upharsin ’’—laid the king out. For that night the minions of Cyrus perforated Belshazzar with their* arrows until he resembled a defunct porcupine. BELSHAZZAR LOVED HIS BOOZE not wisely, but too well. He was a riotous gentle man. Wine, women and war were his ruin. In his last and most magnificent carouse he lost his grip, and his brazen idols went down with him. Daniel had vainly foretold the coming of the ■torm. The king “ knew it all.** It was as if he had cried out, •• Let ’er go, Dan,’’ and defied fate. As a fact, I find that all the leading personages who figure in biblical history, as well as a large majority of those who were led, from Noah to Balaam, from Solomon to Samuel, had a kindly inclination to taste of “the wine when it was red,” or any other color, for that matter. I may as well state just now that there was beer, pure malt beer, to be had In Babylon during the era in wjiich it was destroyed. It was on tap in earthen jars and was in special favor with the com mon populace. Who the brewers were I have failed to discover in my historical researches. And yet we boast of our advanced civilization ! Very much ahead, isn’t it, when if one of our effete monarchs over there in Europe gets on a drunken tare, the only thing he can get away with is himself, while in the days B. 0. any ordinary king on a spiritual rampage thought nothing of - making a bonfirt of his royal palaces and wiping ' out his entire nation. • I fancy, from all that I have read about them, that Nebuchadnezzar and Belshazzar were sufficiently advanced in civilization for all practical purposes —in the matter of drinking and eating—and mak ing fools of themselves. Whether in their time Enlightenment and Art had got on so far as to provide theatrical entertain ments and players and manageress somawhat’in doubt. If there were these luxuries, the chroni clers have omitted mention of the fact. AS A THEATRIC DISPLAY, the impious feast of Belshazzar was a memorable success. Of the menu, the quality of the wines, the names of the most distinguished of the one thou sand guests, there is no record—but there remains the history of its awful and unexpected close—the mysterious hand, the fingers of which “ came forth and wrote over against the candlestick upon the plaster of the wall of the King’s palace;’* the grand tableau of fright, horror and despair; the sudden appearance of the legions of Cyrus; the burning of the city and the death of Belshazzar. THE ARGUMENT OF THI3 ANCIENT HISTORIC SUCCESSION OF EVENTS is here given in tr’ef form: After Cyrus had spent two whole years before Babylon, without making any progress in the ■iege, he at last thought of the following stratagem, which put him in possession of it. He was in formed that a great annual feast was to be held at Babylon and that the inhabitants on that occasion were accustomed to spend the whole night in dunk ing and debauchery. This he therefore thought a proper time for sur prising them; and accordingly sent a strong de tachment to the head of the canal leading to the large lake, with orders, at a certain time, to break down the great bank which was between the lake and the canal, and to turn the whole current into the lake. At the same time he stationed one body of troops at the place where the river entered the city, and another where it came out; ordering them to march in by the bed of the river as soon as they should find it lordable. On thia memorable night, revelry and wild lux ury reigned. Tbe prodigious granaries, the stores that seemed exhaustless, men’s high hopes, and their spirit of jubilant defiance, all taught Babylon to set its besiegers at naught, and the last King of Babylon was deep in his carouse, and perpetrating ■acrilege when by command of Cyrus, one body of troops under Gobyras, the other under Gadates, finding the gates all left open in consequence of the disorders of that riotous night, penetrated into the ▼ery heart of the city. Then followed the scene of hurry, confusion, fire and slaughter which had been foretold by the prophecies of Jevemiah. In vaid did “ one host ran to meet another, to show the King of Babylon that his city was taken at one end, and that the passages were stopped.” •* The mighty men of Babylon forbsse to they became as women.” “Her prinees wore made drunk, her wise men, her captains, her rulers, and her mighty men, they slept a perpetual sleep.’* “The broad walls of Babylon were utterly broken, and her high gates were burned with fire; the peo ple labored in'vain and the folk in the fire.** “In that night was Belshazzar the King of the Chal deans slain.’* Thus was Babylonia reduced to a province of Per sia, and the great empire of Babylon numbered with the things of the past. And now, AFTER A LAPSE OF MORE THAN TWO THOU SAND YEARS, comes a revival of these events—in dramatic form as gorgeous and impressive as the pageantry of a royal dreapi—on Staten Island. As there were a thousand people assembled at the original feast, so there are the same number gath •rsd oa the votft stage of its reproduction. PMSHED BY A. J. WILLIAMSON’B BONB. A stage which is nearly five hundred feet in width and more than one hundred in depth; a stage on which the act-drop of the largest theatre in the world would look like a fancy pocket-handkerchief hung up to dry. On this stage, Salvini could no more than get across the stage before the last act of the play would be ended, and the howl of the Moor at the death of Desdemona have no more effect than the buzz of a bumble-bee. Imagine a prompter trying to “give the word” to an unfortunate actor who had suddenly “stuck” somewhere in the middle of the stage I He might prompt him if he could get a fog-horn capable of articulating the lines. Nothing could give abetter idea of the immensity of this stage at St. George that the appearance upon it of the ordinary stock company of a theatre playing one of the standard comedies. It would remind one of a score of little children scattered over a quarter section of prairie. Upon this stage, then, is produced the story of Belshazzar’s feast and the destruction of Babylon, which fills the great space with a magnificence of effect and splendor of display, commensurate with its theme. IT IS A PAGEANT of color, brilliance of light, diversity of action, grandeur of scenic design and of picturesque beauty, which can scarcely be realized in the tame ness of description. It is one of those inspiring theatric displays which once seen can never be forgotten. From the moment the gates of the great wall are opened, to the closing scene of the conflagration, carnage and destruction of the city, there is no pause in the action/no cessation in the progress of the spectacle. The various characters, the long processions, the nobility in their chariots, the camels and ele phants, the crowds of the common people, as they pass and repass, the shouts, the chorus of hun dreds of voices, and all ths noises and bustle, the life and social phases of a once mighty city of the East, fill the stage, and almost bewilder the senses of sight and heaving. It is the perfection of realism glorified and made radiant by the glamour of romanticism. Every individual of the thronging hosts that come and go has a mission and an appointed place, as if he or she were one of the cog-wheels of a clock. There is no confusion.no halting—no th ing but harmony and grace of movement. In ana through all this one can detect the pres ©o99 of fk master in the bueUoss of organising and the direction of great masses of people; of one who is a thorough adept ia creating and arranging artis tic effects; of one who can instruct small numbers Of people so that when massed in one great body they move and act together with the same precision and ease, as if inspired with a single mind and actuated with but one thought. There is but one master who in this our time has, upon the spectacular stage, accomplished these re sults, and he is IMRE KIRALFY. Ho Is—to the Ballet, to the ordetiod 6t ptocessionfl and arranging the tableaux and groupings in which brilliance of colorjand light, and celerity and grace of movement are the dominant factors what the mainspring is to the watch—the sole and only motive power. Without his talent, quickness of perception and a knowledge gained by long experience—the spectac ular business would have had something of a sorry showing. No greater proof of his ability in this work can be desired than that which is made apparent in the magnificent divertissement forming a part of the Babylonian revels—wherein four or five hundred coryphees in a sensuous dance presently fall grace fully into a line extending across the entire width of the stage and sway to and fro in a languorous move ment—with an artistic precision of action as wonder ful as they are supremely beautiiul. There has certainly never been a greater oppor tunity for Imre Kiralfy to exercise his remarkable. talent as a stage organizer than in the rehearsal of the principals and coryphees and people making up the processions of this representation of the “Fall of Babylon”; and certainly nothing has yet been accomplished on so large a scale which is at all comparable to this. The scenic pictures; the view of the city of Baby lon, with its lofty towers, its palaces, and the splen dor of its decorations and the bewildering kaleido scopic combinations of color brought out in such vivid, realistic effect by the myriad of electric lights —are an artistic study, without reference to the performance. Either the scenic display or the moving host, the brilliant costumes, and the in terest of the action, would alone be sufficient to command tbe presence of large audiences. After the revels, and following tbe consternation of the revelers at the feast when confronted by the awful writing upon the wall, comes the most excit ing portion of the representation, so far as action is concerned. Then begins the almost indescribable and real istic SCENE OF CARNAGE AND DESTRUCTION. From palace and castle, from gate and tower, through the avenues and along the broad street at the front of the stage, the ’surprised and terrified people flee, only to be overtaken and slain by their pursuers. “Every one that is found shall be thrust through, and every one that is joined unto them shall fall by the sword.” The orders of Cyrus restraining the indiscriminate slaughter of the inhabitants commanded the mas sacre only of those found in the streets. Belshazzar, drunk from his revels of the night, rushes upon Darius, the Persian general, and a brief but one-sided encounter ensues, and “in that night was Belshazzar, the King of the Chal deans, slain.” This tragic event, attended by the bursting forth of the flames in every part of tbe city and the crash of tbe falling walls, forms a fitting climax to the spectacle. If Daniel the Prophet, at an earlier period, had brought Belshazzar around as the leader in a grand total abstinence nhpvement, and put the blue-law system into operation—it is possible there would have been no “ Mene Mene Tekel Upharsin” for him to explain, and Cyrus and Darius, and the rest of the Persian followers, could not have wiped Babylon out of existence. And then Erastus Wiman and my friend, John W. Hamilton, would have had no “Fall of Babylon” upon which to bestow so much of cost, care and time. But then they would have taken a spectacular fall out of some other subject. A New Idea. PRESERVING BODIES BY METALIZING. A Frenchman some time since suggested that human bodies be copper-plated as a means of pre servation, he having tried the experiment success fully on small animals; the copper shell can be plated with nickel, silver or gold. Whatever use may be made of this as a means of prenervation, it is useful as a method of obtaining fnc-simile casts lor demonstration. The process proposed by Broca ior metaliziag the brain is well known. The organ is first hardened, then immersed in a solution of nitrate of silver and then exposed to the action of sulpberetted hydrogen; a metallic sul phide is thus formed, which acts the same as the black lead coating employed in electrotyping; the organ thus prepared is placed in the bath, the op eration being the same as in electro-metallurgy, only a very thin deposit being required. Tfie brain is removed through a small hole, the interior wash ed out with strong lye, and finally, after drying, the shell is filled with plaster of paris. A Dishonest Servant Girl.— Carrie Jacobs was in need of a girl to help her with the house and the child. She went to an intelligence office and took a fancy to Lizzy Dougherty. She took Lizzy home with her and introduced her to baby in the cradle. Lizzy was then left to see to it while Mrs. Jacobs went to attend to her household duties. An hour after Lizzy left, and took a pocket book with $5 that was in tbe cradle. Lizzy denied tbe charge: tbe house was not to her liking. But when she was arraigned on another charge of stealing a coat from Catherine McVay, she acknowl edged stealing and pawning it. The Court sent her to the Penitentiary for eight months. NEW YORK. SUNDAY. JULY 17. 1887. THE OLD SILK DRESS. A Strange Deliverance in a French Court. Why the Marchioness Was so Very Anxious. THE MEDICAL STUDENT AND HIS PRIZE. The Story of a Crime and How it Finally Came to Light. Madame Oourvey sold millinery on the Rue St. Jacques, Paris, It was a very poor kind of milli nery, for her customers were a very poor kind of people. Very little of it was new. She bought up second-hand things, furbished them up and sold them for over a hundred times as much as she paid for them. Sometimes people brought cast-off arti cles to her shop and took for them what they could got. On August 15th, 1872, a little old woman went into Madame Courvey’s shop with a bundle, in brown paper. “Ah, well, what have we got hero?” said Mad ame, feeling the bundle. •‘That is an old silk dress,” was the reply; “but it is still very good, and I have no doubt you can pay me a fair price for it and still make a very large profit on it.” When the parcel was opened, a brown silk dress was exposed to view. Madame shook it out, and, holding it at arm's length, examined it. “Is it not lovely?” the little old woman said, stroking the dress with her band. “Once, no doubt, it was lovely,” was the re sponse, “but that was a very long time ago. But come, what do you want for it ?” “There, now I that's always the way with people like you,” said the little old woman. “You fancy I'll put a price on it altogether ridiculously small, as you conclude I would never part with such a beautiful garment unless I needed the money. Now, what is it worth to you ?’* “Three francs,” was the reply. “Three francs I” exclaimed the little Old woman; “why it cost thousands.” “Yes, and you might add, ‘thousands of years ago,”’ was the answer. “Three francs, or take it away.” “ Ab, well, then, three francs be it,” the little old woman said; “but you are getting a tremendous bargain.” Tfte money wag handed over and the little old wouiati quitted the shop! . s Q9UtV6y tbtotf tha dress on one side and Went Into her Small parlor in the rear, to finish her dinner. When that was over, she took a good look' at the brown silk dress. It waa elegantly made, in a fashion of twenty years before. The workman ship was superb, showing that it had been put together by an experienced and accomplished work woman. Though faded a little here and there, and frayed in one or two places, madam® was satisfied that she could get a good many yards of Bilk out of it wl/ich she could turn to good purpose. Then she laid it down and waited for customers. AN ACCIDENT AND A DISCLOSURE. In meaatime, the little old lady had hastened toward the bridge of Notre Dame. As ehe Was crossing the Rue de la Huchette, she was knocked down and run over by a heavy truck. Bleeding and insensible, she was speedily conveyed to a hos pital. On searching her clothing, a letter was dis covered, addressed to Madame Picquigny, care of the Marchioness de C , Place de Wagram, Paris. The latter lady was immediately informed of the facts and speedily arrived at the hospital in her car riage, and announced that the unfortunate patient was her friend, Madame Picquigny. The patient had recovered consciousness and was not so seriously injured as might have been expect ed. As the doctors and several medical students stood around, the Marchioness held a conversation in low tones with her friend. “ What wece you doing in the Rue St. Jacques ?” she asked. “ Well, you wouldn’t give me any money, so I went thither to sell an old dress,” was tbe reply. “An old dress I Where did you get it ?” “I rummaged in the old brass-bound trunk in your bath-room and found it there.” “My God 1 what have you done ? What dress did you take?” “A brown silk one—neatly folded up, but very old, right at the very bottom of the trunk.” “You have ruined us I Your folly will bring dis grace upon us all. Where did you sell the dress ?” “At Madame Couryey’s, Rue St.-Jacques, near the Rue Sufflot.” “I must go thither at once and recover the dress.” The marchioness gave some hurried instructions to the doctor in charge and departed. PAUL RUFFIN’S EXPEDITION. Among the students near the patient was Paul Ruffin. He had good ears, and he caught all that passed between the marchioness and her friend. “That dress is evidently worth something,” said he to himself, “and I will have it.” He quitted the ward. At the gate of the hospital was the carriage of the marchioness. “Ob, curses I” said Ruffin; “she will get ahead of me I” Then an idea struck him. Going up to the coach man, he said: “The Marchioness de 0 bade me tell you to return home at once and call for her here in three hours’ time.” The flunkey mounted to bis perch and the coach man instantly drove off. Then Buffin hastened to Madame Courvey's shop. •• We re getting up some private theatricals.” he said, “and I want to buy a secondhand silk dress. Have you such a thing?” “Have the very thing you desire,” was the reply, and the brown silk dress was shown to him. “It is rather worn,” he said; “ what do you want for it?” “Twenty francs.” “Too dear altogether. I will give you ten.’* “I will take fifteen.’’ “That is fair. Wrap it up and here is the money.” Ruffin departed to his room with the dress in his possession. A REWARD OFFERED. When the Marchioness de 0 found that her carriage was gone she was greatly annoyed and sent for a cab. Half an hour after Madame Courvey had sold the brown silk dress to Ruffin the marchioness entered her shop and demanded it. “ I have sold it,” was the answer. “Sold it I Didn’t you know it was stolen ?” “ How should I know that, madame ? I gave the full value lor the old thing.** “ Do. you know the purchaser ?*’ “I never saw him before to my knowledge.” “ Ah, it was a gentleman ?” “Yes; a young man. He wanted it for a theatri cal exhibition.” The marchioness departed. In the afternoon newspapers and again in the evening newspapers an advertisement appeared offering a reward of one hundred .francs for the brown dress, as it was highly esteemed because of its former owner, who was dead. Ruffin saw this advertisement, of course, for it was what he expected, and he said: “If this old brown silk dress is worth 100 francs, it is worth more. But this story about its being highly esteemed because of its former owner is all nonsense. There is some much more powerful rea son for the lady’s seeking to recover its possession than that. ‘You have ruined us. Your folly will bring disgrace upon us all.’ Those are the words I heard her utter. This dress is the key to some grave secret and I can afford to wait for a higher bid.” Another advertisement appeared subsequently, stating the same reason for desiring to recover the dress but offering a “ very liberal reward ” for its restoration. This advertisement was repeated at intervals for a fortnight, but it did not suit Ruffin, and so he kept the dress in his trunk and said noth ing about it to any one. MaDAME COUVREY’S OFFER. Finally he went one day into Madame Couvrey’s shop in the Hue St. Jacques, hoping that the lady might recognize him and have something to say about the dress. He was right.Jor Madame Couvrey did recognize him at once and said: “ Ah, monsieur, what did you do with the brown silk dress which you bought from me ? If you have it still, I will give you a good price for it.” “ Many thanks to you, my friend,” said Ruffin; “ but lam not going to part with it. It is a very useful addition to our theatrical wardrobe.*' “ Well, now, what do you say to my offering you a hundred francs for it ?” “It is declined. I know all about it. The Mar chioness de 0 is anxious to get it back and has offered a reward, but I won t gratify her. It Isa very valuable piece of property. I suspect.” “ Now, monsieur, I have something to say to you. The lady has been here several times inquir ing after you. I have described you to her as well as I could, and sbe begged and exhorted me, if ever I saw you again, to try to get you to restore the dress. I never saw any one so anxious about a rusty old garment. I verily believe she would give thousands of francs to get it once more into her keeping. So, if you want to negotiate with her, I will do all I can for you—on shares.” “ Thanks, madame. lam perfectly aware of her anxiety, and I may some day find out the cause of it. Then it may be worth even more money than it is now.” A HINT THAT WAS NOT LOST. “ She was very earnest about one thing. ‘lf you ever see the gentleman,’ she said, ‘and he doesn’t feel disposed to sell me the dress just now, tell him not to destroy it, or rip it to pieces; and that, at any time he wishes to part with it, I will give him a good price for it.* Those were her very words.” art Inhpnhnt. After Ruffin had quitted Madame Oourvey’s shop, he thought over what he had just heard. “Sbe doesn’t want the dress ripped up, eh? What does that mean ? I have it. There is some thing concealed about it which sbe does not wish to be discovered. It may be a valuable diamond. I will make a thorough examination of it at once.” So Ruffin wont to his room, took out the dress and felt it all over. Every seam was scrutinized, but there was nothing that resembled a precious stone of any kind. Tbe skirt was lined with buckram, and Ruffin searched all over this with much care. Efe thought there was something between the silk and tbe lining along tbe bottom, bo he made a very small opening, and, sure enough, there was paper. “A document of some kind concealed here,” he said. “That is the secret, beyond question. Ah, I am anxious to know what it is. I cannot wait. I must ascertain what it is immediately.” He took his penknife and cut the atiches. He drew out a sheet of paper filled with writing. He worked along and produced another and another sheet—-six sheets in all—covered with writing, His eye caught a word here and there which sent a thrill through him. “Now for a feast,” he said, and he sat down and began to read. As he read the interest grew. From time to time he uttered exclamations of surprise, and when he bad finished the perusal, he lay back in his chair, lost in thought. THE GAMIN DETECTIVE. Madame Courvey had mado up her mind,some time before Ruffin’s visit, that, if she ever set eyes on him again, she would take steps to recover the dress. So, when he quitted her shop, she hastily sum moned Jacques Quericq, a street gamin, and bade him follow the young man, and bring her back word whither he went, promising a handsome re ward for the service. Jacques fulfilled his mission well, and speedily returned with the number of the bouse and the street where|Ruffin resided. Madame Courvey im mediately closed her shop, went to the nearest pol ce station, and swore out a warrant for the ar rest of Ruffin, for stealing from her premises a brown silk dress of the value of twenty francs. As she didn’t know the name of Ruffin, it was left in blank; but she offered to accompany an officer to Ruffin s residence and point out the man. While Ruffin was lying back in his chair, musing, after the perusal of tbe papers found in the dress, an officer and Madame Courvey were ascending the stairs. A gentle knock came to the door, and liuffi’n instantly put the papers in his pocket. Then he opened the door. “That is the man,” said Madame Courvey, “and there is the dross he stole.” Ruffin’s expostulation and declaration of Inno cence was of no avail. He was arrested and the dress was appropriated and the party returnad to the police station. Ruffin was searched and the papers were found upon him. They passed into tbe hands of the Chief of Police, and Ruffin, against whom no offense was proved, was liberated. En deavors were made by parties in power to induce the Marchionees de C to take a certain course in view of the contents of the papers, but she posi tively refused to do so, and consequently a civil action was brought, in the trial of which the docu ment found iu tbe skirt of the old silk dress was produced. It ran tnus: THE CONFESSION. “I, August Bausset, commonly known as the Marquis de C , being at the point of death, make this voluntary confession. “In 1832, when I was nineteen years of age, I committed a robbery in Paris and flew to Dieppe. Thence I sailed in a lugger to Newhaven, in Eng land. In the neighborhood of Brighton, I met a young French gentleman who wae at eohool hoar that town. We becam§ friends aud Spent much of each day In company for a fortnight. We grew very intimate and he gave me his history. He was the son of the Marquis de C , who resided at the chateau of Leuroux, in Berry, France, where he owned a large estate. The youth was seventeen years old and much about my’build and appearance. His father was an imbecile and was in the care ot a sister, and the physicians had directed that Henry—that was his name—should not be thrown into any intimate relations with his parent for certain important reasons. Consequently from the age of thirteen he had been at school in England and had never daring that time been in France. He bad plenty of money and managed to pass his time very pleasantly. “ I induced him to go away with me to London. There we provided ourselves with knapsacks and necessary clothing, and sailed on board the brig “Astra ” for Italy. Henri took with him all his let ters and private papers, beside jewelry and nearly four hundred pounds sterling. I had about ten pounds. The brig touched at Ci vita Vecchia, and then sailed for another port. We landed at Civita Vecchia, and started on foot for Rome. “In the night, as Henri lay on the grass by my side, I stabbed him to the heart. I put his body in a deep hole hear the root of a large tree where there was a heavy growth of bushes. I threw my knap sack in after the body. Then I took Henri’s knap sack and went toward Rome. Three weeks later I returned. I visited the tree and the body and knap sack were there still. I went to Civita Vecchia, and took ship there for Alexandria. From Alexandria I went to Marseilles, and from Marseilles to Mauriti us. Then I went to South America, and in the Spring of 1834 returned to France. I had all Henri’s jewelry in say possession, and resolved to pass my self off for him. I went to Leuroux and found that the marquis was dead, but his sister received me with great joy, and I had no difficulty in deceiving her. * * * Two years later I married my wife. “Make this confession in order that my wife may make arrangements, so that at her death the estates and name of de C , may go to those to whom they legally belong. AUGUST BAUSSET, “Called the Marquis de C .” The confession was properly dated and attested and under it was written: “I solemnly pledge myself to preserve this con fession and to arrange so that after my death it shall go into the bands of those whom it is intended to benefit. JULIE, wife of August Bausset, “Known as the Marquise de 0 .” On the trial, the marchioness admitted that she sewed the confession into the skirt of the old silk dress, and that she had made a will leaving the dress to Madame Picquigny, who was the next heir to the estate of Leuroux, thus thinking to satisfy her conscience. The action was decided in favor of Madame Pic quigny, after a great deal of very interesting evi dence had been taken. The marchioness was judi cially directed to take the name of Bausset, The ENLIGHTENING A SHARP-NOSED’ MAN. (lyom the San Francisco Chronicle.) He was one of those long, thin, dried-up fellows with a parchment skin, and sharp eyes and a sharp nose, who are always prying into things. It was on the Saucelito boat, and a fellow came on board with a basket and sat down near him. There was some thing very important in the basket, for the fellow kept peering in all the time and looking to see if the lid was securely fastened.. The sharp-nosed man began to feel an interest, and his curiosity kept rising higher and higher, until when the fellow had peered into the basket for the fiftieth time, he couldn’t stand it any longer. “ I beg your pardon, but you’re so interested in that basket you really excite me. What have you got in it ?” The fellow looked at him a moment. “I’ll tell you, certainly. You won’t give it away ?” “ I give you my word.” “ Well, it’s a mongaroo.” “ A mongaroo ! And what is a mongaroo ?” “ You don’t know what a mongaroo is? A mon garoo is an animal found in Africa that lives entire ly on snakes.” “ And how are you going to get snakes for it to eat ?” “ Oh, you see I’m taking it to my brother. He’s a confirmed drinker, and ” *• But I don’t see “ “ Well, he’s always seeing snakes and I’m going to ” “But how can this animal live on imaginary snakes ?’* “Oh. this is an imaginary mongaroo.” Then fee sharp-nosed man went into the cabin and sat down opposite to a girl who is supposed to be in Sau-elito for change of air, but comes over here four days out of the week. ♦ i . i ♦ — A Toungster Astonished. HE TRIED TO 'PLAY IT VERY IN NOCENTLY. Joseph Howirtz, a lad, was charged with larceny from the person. The coipplainant, Michael Harris, said he was attracted to the lad’s suspicious move ments on the street and he followed him. He saw him stand by the side of a lady at a show window and try to open her satchel. Failing to get in the satchel, he tried the lady’s pocket. Previous to that he had seen the young man in Ridley’s store. After leaving the store he touched the women's dresses, as he passed along, to feel if there was a wallet to go for. There was a young man on the outside apparently on the lookout for him. When searched three pocket-books and several handker chiefs were found in his pocket. He had nothing to say when arrested. “All 1 have to say is this,” said the young man, when asked to explain matters ; “ the old pocket book is my own; the other I used to keep cigarettes in, and the other pocket-book was given mo by my aunt.” ••How do you account for the handkerchiefs?” asked the court. “My mother sells handkerchiefs.” “But they were all dirty handkerchiefs?” “ All soiled said the boy. “All soiled,” said the court. “ Well, I am astonished to hear that,” said the youth. “House of Refuge,” said the court. “ The devil I” said the boy. The Switch-House Mystery. Baffling Police Detectives. A FRENCHMAN’S PECULIAR BULLETS. The Strange Discovery ot an Unknown Connection. A COUNTRY DOCTOR’S STORY. The circumstances we are about to relate, were told to ub by a physician who, at the time of their happening, was the County Physician at the place of the commission of the crime, a place that then was on the frontier, bnt that now, is one of the most thriving cities in the Western States. The doctor told us the story late one night, when we were in a train returning from St. Louis, where we bad been to attend the meeting of a medical society in which he was interested and of the proceedings of which he wanted a report. We were in the sleeper smoking compartment, and not feeling inclined for sleep, the doctor told me the following story apropos of some remarks we made in relation to the great number of hidden crimes. At the time of the Switch House mystery, the town had but just been incorporated as a city, and the stock yards having located there, we soon had a •‘boom” on and had every indication of turning out what we have become, the most thriving and bustling city west of the Mississippi. The real estate men and journals combined to talk and write the town up to the top notch; and the railroads having centered there, the boom was successful. Vice and sin, as is always the case, ran hand in glove; every second store about the main square was a grogshop or gambling hell, while the streets abutting thereon were lined with the residences ox frail women, who follow a boom like vultures do the deafl* We had a church or two, and three or lour theatres, D9t to mention numberless concert dives. Altogether HORNED CITY was a lively place when I was county doctor there fifteen years ago. Well, one morning I was called from my breakfast table to the police station, to find that an eccentric old man, who had lived for years in a deserted switch house, between the Bot toms and the stock yards, had been found dead, in an advanced state of decomposition and partly de voured by rats, on the floor of his shanty, by an enterprising census taker, who, in his eagerness to add to the total population, bad stumbled on this unsavory mystery. Chief Squeers of the police and I at once started for the spot, accompanied by the brightest officer in town, Sergeant Keating, and we found the body as described, the shanty window partly open, and that bis end was sudden was prnysd by the bread and apples in bis cook-stove Oven, burned to a crisp. At Keating’s request the remains of old Connors (for that was the old squatter’s name.) were gath ered into a blanket and taken to the Morgue, where I, without exception, performed the most disgust ing and filthy post-mortem I ever carried through. At the inquest Chief Squeers testified that the deceased had complained to him of two cowboys something like ten days previously, having threat ened his life and stoned his hut, in consequence of his having remonstrated with them for breaking down his rude fence and allowing their cattle to overrun his potato patch. Other evidence given, served to show that deceased had BELIEVED HIS LIFE IN DANGER from cowboys who had annoyed him at various times; so the jury brought in a verdict of death at the hands of some person or persons unknown, and recommended the arrest of the cowboys in ques tion. Oi course in the state the remains were in, I could discover nothing save and except what seemed to be a bullet wound over the heart, but searched again and again vainly for the bullet that caused it. Two days afterward, Keating brought to the sta tion the two cowboys who bad annoyed the old man at the time he complained to the chief. They were armed with forty-four calibre revolvers, and the wound in the old man's breast was evidently a large calibre wound, but as the prosecuting attor ney said: “ That proves nothing, Doc. You and I, and nine out of every ten men in the State, carry a 44,” and he produced one from his hip hostler, nearly identi cal to the one taken from the captive cowboys. So the two “ cattle punchers ” were discharged, and there was every indication of the Switch House Mystery remaining a mystery and being pidgeon holed for future investigation, which means total oblivion in police circles. But on the night of the day that witnessed the discharge of the two ranch men, the chief received the following telegraphic message: ••To Chief Squeers, Horned City, from Buffalo. N. Y., September —. —Hold prisoners till arrival Con nor's brother. Leaves for your city to-night. ••John Smith, Chief of Police.” And on the ensulngmorning but one, THE BROTHER OF THE MURDERED MAN, a policeman on the Buffalo force, arrived. In the meantime, every possible effort had been made to ward the rearrest of the two cowboys, but they had covered their tracks so well, that Keating could gain no trace of them. The younger Connor said, that his older brother having inherited all his fath er's extensive property at the latter’s death, and that he (the younger) had not lived at home since he was sixteen, the murdered man’s miserly habits having led him to drive the boy and his two sisters from bis house, and that shortly afterward he pack ed up and came West, leaving his young kindred to shift for themselves. The brother’s theory was that the old man had been killed for gain, as no trace of any money or property could be found about the hut, and expressed his intention of sifting the mat ter to the bottom. Desiring my assistance to find the bullet, we ob tained the body with from the ceme tery authorities, and taking it in a boat to the disused pest-house that stood on an island the op posite side of the river from Hie town, we immersed it in a large pork barrel filled with water, and lock ing the morgue door, left it to macerate in solitude, returning with difficulty to the foot of Main street, for the night was dark and stormy and it was all we could do to manage the boat. As we walked up from the river the young man told Keating and I his and his brother's history. After the elder brother had turned his two sisters and the sixteen year-old lad out of their comfortable home at Syra cuse, N. Y., the neighbors had expressed their de testation of him so vigorously that he had packed up and gone to Cincinnati, where there lived a Frenchman-Jules Juvin—who was the only inti mate friend the miser possessed. This was a sur prise to us, for though the Frenchman had ap peared at the inquest as having known Connor, he had thrown no particular light on the case, nor had he claimed any close friendship with him, though he now admitted having acted as the old man's banker, having paid him a heavy sum of money, which the deceased had intended to invest in land about thirty miles out of town. On investigation it was found that CONNORS HAD NOT BOUGHT THE LAND in question, and all hands were confirmed in the theory of murder for gain, first advanced by the younger Connors. Juvin said that he frequently received heavy sums for deceased, generally from the neighborhood of Syracuse, N. Y., where he claimed to own property. About noon I was called to Headquarters on an accident case, and, looking for my pocket case of instruments, found them gone, and concluded I must have dropped them while stooping about the floor of the old pest-house the previous night, grop. ing for the cover to the maceration barrel. Keating and I took our first leisure moment, and that night started for the Island, after dark, and I, rowing, left the foot of Main street The night was dark and sultry, with an occa sional flash of lightning, the current running so swiftly that it took all my strength to keep us from being carried under the railroad bridge, that threw its dark span over the muddy waters, just below the Island. Keating, who had remarkably keen sight, suddenly exclaimed, ‘’There’s a boat leaving the Island, Doc !” and headed our boat diagonally across the stream. At that instant a vivid flash lit up the troubled waters, and I distinctly saw a boat with a single occupant shoot out from the Island, and disappear in the shadow of the bridge. To pre vent being swept broadside on against the stone pier, I pulled hard on my left oar, and in a moment or two struck on the shoal that ran out at the foot of the island. We gave up the chase as useless, dragged the boat ashore, and, lighting the lantern, ran up to the pest-house. The door was open, though I had closed it the night before. The barrel was upset, the body lying on the floor, and from the moisture about it was evident that, had we been five minutes earlier, we would have caught the murderer at his work of de. stroying evidence. The body, EXPOSED TO THE RAVAGES OF THE RATS, would not have lasted long, and our case would have disappeared with the body. And Keating struck the keynote of my thoughts when he said, grimly : “ There’s some one nearer home than those cow boys, interested in this mess.” My instrument case lay amid the refuse, as it had fallen from my breast pocket the day before. We returned the remains to the barrel, after re filling it with water; and, after securing the head, Keating announced his intention of remaining on the island till daybreak, and added : “ Hereafter this place must never be left un guarded.” I returned, and left word with the chief to have a man relieve him at morning, and then went home and to sleep. ’ OFFICE, NO. Il FRANKFORT BT. Six weeks passed without a single incident of any bearing on the case. Business slowed up, and I fell into my old pastime of pistol shooting to pass away the time. In this I was often joined by Mon •iour Juvin, who would drop in, as he lived near, and aid me in my endeavor to reduce the bull’s eye to a dead certainty. I discovered that he and I had the mania for col lecting arms in common, arid one Sunday morning, at his repeated invitation, I visited his house to in spect his cabinet of these curiosities. He had a varied and interesting collection. MANY CURIOUS WEAPONS, ' both old and new, and in a case containing a pair of cavalry pistols of large calibre, I noticed a few steel-pointed, conical bullets. I took one up, in tending to ask their origin, when he attracted my attention to a magnificent pair of Spanish blades, that he took from a cabinet, and it was only on my arrival home that I found, grasped in my left hand, the bullet I had taken up some time before. I was annoyed at my absent-minded trick, and, placing it carefully in my fob-pocket, resolved to return it to him at the first opportunity. On Tuesday, the chief—Connors, Keating and myself, accompanied by a. reporter who had got scent of the proceedings, crossed the river and ex amined the settlings at the bottom of my pork bar rel. After considerable scraping and scooping wo found—a conical, steel-pointed pistol bullet. That it was the one that caused Connors’s death was evi dent from the mark on its leaden portion, where my scalpel had struck it during the post mortem. The body being rotted, it had sunk into the tissues, offering no resistance to the edge of my knife. Breathless and TREMBLING WITH EXCITEMENT I pointed these facts out to my companions, and as the fatal link of evidence struck my mind, 1 ex claimed: •• And in addition to this, gentlemen, I can lay my hand to-day on the owner of bullets exactly like this one in every particular,” and drawing the bul let obtained from Juvin’s pistol-case from my fob, I compared the two, and beyond a doubt they were cast from the same mold, and for use in the same weapon. “ Where did you get this duplicate ?” asked all four of mv companions, in a breath. “From Jules Juvin,” I answered, and related the manner of its discovery. In haste wo returned to town, and the chief at once swore out a warrant for the body of Jules Ju vin, suspected of the murder of the old min Con nors. Armed with this, which was only obtained after some delay, Keating and I hastened to the murderer’s house. But th© news had got there before us, and Juvin lay stretched in death. A strong smell of almonds filled the apartment. In making the necessary examination, I discov ered the astonishing fact that the deceased was a woman. What link had bound the suicide and her victim together in life we never discovered, but the amount of money that Connors had drawn for his land investment was found hidden beneath the flooring of the Frenchwoman’s house. It was sunrise when we finished the search, as it is now, by the way, and the doctor raised the blind and looked out over the rolling plains that we were running over, but we found nothing further. Connors got his brother’s money and re turned East with it; Keating died Winter before last, in the discharge of hi* duty, and Squeers is stUl chief of polios at Horned City. I quit politics and county positions, and have devoted myself to practice ever since, with good average results. There is perhaps but one moral to the doctor's story. “Murder will out”; but the causes that lead to murder often remain as deep a mystery, after a crime is traced, as at the hour of its accomplish ment. Gen. Pickett’s Widow. HER GIFT TO HER HUBBAND TWENTY YEARS AGO. (From the Baltimore Sun.) Just twenty years ago, on the eve of the anniver sary of Gettysburg, Mrs. Pickett made her husband an anniversary gift which she knew would please him. She had made some money by translating, and expended a portion of it for the gift. While a cadet at West Point Gen. Pickett’s mother present ed him with a gold watch, and he valued it highly. His wife obtained the watch to have it cleaned, and had the Confederate and the Union flags crossed upon its outside in colors. Inside she had engraved a list of the battles in which he had participated in Mexico and those in which he was engaged during the Civil War. Both lists were long. The latter list included Yorktown, Williamsburg, Seven Pines, Gaines’s Mills (where 'he was wounded); Fredericksburg, Suffolk, Gettysburg, Newbern, Petersburg, North Anna, Cold Harbor, Bermuda Hundred, Five Forks, Dinwiddle Court-House, Sailor’s Creek and Appo mattox. She could not have the work done in Richmond at that time, and it was thought so strange that a Confederate general s wife really wanted the two flags entwined on her husband’s watch, that the work had te be done in Baltimore. “ When I gave it to him,' said Mrs. Pickett, in a tremulous voice, *• I made his heart so full he could hardly speak. He had fought under the old flag in a foreign country, and loved the flag and those he had fought with under it. He said it was the hard, est act of nis life to order the men to fire on the old flag.” Gen. Pickett died at Norfolk. Va., July, 1875. His last words were “Good night.” Mrs. Pickett had the watch decorated to show her husband that she forgave him for making her shake hands with Yankees and accept hospitalities from them, and to show him that Southern women could overcome their prejudices. Mrs. Puckett was Miss Lasalle Corbell, of Chuckatuck, Nansemond county, Va. At the age of fifteen she married Gen. Pickett. Sep tember 15, 1863. She has a letter from Geu. Pickett, written just before the famous charge, in which he gives an account of Longstreet s objection to the charge, and another letter from Gen. Pickett, writ ten just after the charge, in which is an account of the way in which Longstreet took leave of him as he led the division off to the charge. Mrs. Pickett went with her husband through the portion of the war which followed her marriage, going into camp. She was under fire at the retaking of the lines at Petersburg. The last review of her husband's oid division was at Chester Station, between Petersburg and Richmond. The general's men were ragged and barefooted, and Gen. Pickett said every life lost after that would be murder. At this review Mrs. Pickett was on horse back at her husband's side. After the war, Geo. Pickett and wife went to Canada, and lived there under the name of Ed wards. They were poor, and Mrs. Pickett got a position as teacher of Latin and elocution. This position, she stated, she owed indirectly to Mr. Lin coln, who, in 1842, appointed Gen. Pickett a cadet to West Point from Illinois. Without telling Gen. Pickett, Mrs. Pickett answered an advertisement for a teacher. She was so young looking that she was informed that a teacher was wanted, not a scholar. Then she was asked for references. She had a di ploma, but she was afraid to produce it, as it would show she was from Virginia. An examination re sulted in her getting the place. Returning from Canada, they stopped in New lork, engaging small apartments, but old friends of her husband put them in fine quarters, put a earriage at their dis posal, paid all their bills.and did so much that feel ings of friendship were established that can never be broken. Three Young Girls. THEY CHANGED FOR THE WORSE (From the Youth 9 s Companion.) Three young girls of about sixteen, whose gowns show quite good taste* and whose faces tell of pleas ant tempers and nimble minds, are in a parlor to gether, alone. One is reading aloud. Her voice is sweet and unaffected. She stops now and then, while the three discuss their work, with much jok ing and laughter. They are clever, but tender and womanly. They are totally unconscious of themselves; their tones are low and sincere; there can be no doubt you are in the company of gentlewomen. Suddenly, presto ! all is changed. A caller is an. nounced. One of the young ladies stiffens herself, pinches in her lips, and speaks in mincing mono syllables. Another gargles and giggles, blushes and tosses her chiu upward; she lisps her answers with an absurd sweetness of voice and glance. The third suddenly becomes a very swash-buckler of a young woman. Hitherto she has' spoken Eng lish; now she falls into an unknown dialect. “How is your mother, Jenny ?” she is asked by the visitor. “ Oh, top !” “I heard your brother had gone to New York.” “Ob, that was a fake. He was badly punished at foot-ball, and is lying low to fetch up.'* “You seem to know all that’s going on.” “Oh, yes; I'm fly !” One of her companions at this puts on an air of offended propriety, and shakes her head with stern reprobation. The other giggles and drops her head on her breast affectedly. What can have changed these simple, pleasant girls into puppets ? Can it be the advent of a single youth, ringed and chained, and with a faint down upon his upper lip, to which is given all the atten tion his little mind is capable of giving ? Is it possible that any men prefer these simper ing, prim, dash-away styles in women, which are sometimes so exaggerated in silly girls that their manner might befit slaves drawn up in the market, and trying to attract a buyer? So forced and unnatural is the conduct of some of our American girls, when a possible suitor is pres ent, that nothing of the r true selves is seen through it. They might as well be wrapped in the unbe coming head-dress and covering that makes the public dress of the Oriental woman. PRICE FIVE CENTS; THUS WOULD I DIE. My wounded dove, ob, turn thee not away I I meant not, love, those cruel words to say. Oh, hide not now thy peerless face at last, Let me atone before my watoh is past, Before the mystic night of death enshroud* parting day. Let me this one sweet parting mem’ry keep, Ere Azrael lulls my fainting soul to sleep; Fold me once more within thy fond embrace,'] Lay now thy head in its accustomed place; Forget the bitter tears, dear love, I caused thin& eyes to weep. Before I die, love, oh, before I die. Bend on my face thy wistful, azure eye, And soothe me with thy voice’s tender sound; Before the shades of deith have gathered round; Ob, say but once thou Io vest me; but once, before I die. Before I lay mine aching heart to rest, Oh, let mo strain thee to my heaving breast; Oh, say but once, “My darling, I forgive;” For thus to die were sweeter than to live— Thus would I die, mine own; thus woujd I die. for* ever blest. fntcnstmg Storg MARVELOUSMARRIAGE BY A FAVORITE AUTHOR. r' CHAPTER I. $' "SUCH A MAD SCHEME.” “ Well, Edith, her. I am—all ready to listen and sympathize.” “Juliet I I did not expect you so soon, How glad I am 1” “I am half frozen,” says Juliet St. John, ad vancing to the fire. “ They say there has not been euch a bitter November for twenty years. I was skating with Howard and Jeff on the lake this morning.” “ Was Aubrey there?” inquires Edith. “ Part of the time. Tbe boys wanted to tell him that I had changed my plans and was go ing by the earlier train, but Howard had prom ised to drive me to tho station, and they are so full of nonsense when Aubrey is there, that there is no getting anything serious out of them. And I thought that very likely, among them all, we should lose the train. Beside— ’* "You were afraid Aubrey would want you to accept his escort when be found you wore com ing alone; so you judiciously kept him onto! the way,” finishes Edith, smiling a little dis. dainfully, “Is he as much iu love as ever with you, Juliet?” “It is not my fault,” says the girl, with S quick warm flush, that dies away almost aa suddenly as it came. “Oh, of course not! You don’t ride and skate with him, and play billiards and lawn tennis, do you? Why, Juliet, you are always together.” “ But I cannot help that, Editb. I ride and skate with uncle and the boys, and if ho chooses to come with us I cannot prevent him, can I ? How could I refuse to play a game of billiards or lawn-tennis with him and his Bis ters and brothers ? Why, I should make my« self appear perfectly ridiculous, and Uncle Howard would not like it, either, Ho has a particular dislike to family quarrels or unpieaa* antnesses.” “Doesn’t he want you to marry Aubrey?” “ Oh, no ! He has strong objections to mat* riages between cousins, and so have 11” “ Nonsense I” laughs Edith. " You would not care whether Aubrey were your cousin or a South Sea Islander, if you loved him. Xoa are a lucky girl, Juliet— a very lucy girl—to have Uncle Howard on your side. Now hera is my father, careless of my feelings and of everybody else’s, lorcing me into marriage with a cousin!” “Is he your cousin, Edith ? I did not know that. He is not mine, is be ?” “No; ho belongs to mother’s family, and is no relation of yours. Indeed, he is only a very distant cousin of my own.” “ Well, you say it doesn’t matter .” " But I bate him, Juliet.” “ Then I wouldn’t marry him for all the fathers iu the kingdom 1” “My father is not like other fathers,” returns Edith impressively. “ When most girls want to get anything out of their fathers they have merely to ‘ ask prettily,’ as they tell the chil. dren. Mine is not to be moved by pretty speeches any more than ugly ones. Mine is A martinet—a tyrant .” “ Suppose you tell me all the story, Editfi,' instead ot calling Uncle Philip names,” inter* rupts the other, taking a cup of tea from het cousin’s hand. “ Well, the object of the proposed marriage is to join the two estates of Tenham and Compton- Cheney. Tenham belongs to a relation ot ours who has been traveling abroad ever since h 9 came of age, and has just come back, declaring bis intention of settling down—if he can. Ha and father are great friends already, and they have been putting their heads together to con* coct this horrible plan of joining the two places. Isn’t it unfortunate that they chance to adjoin one another, Juliet? Father was not very well off, in spite of hie being the eldest eon. Ha came into Compton Cheney when he married mother, you know, and he never quite liked owing the greater part of his wealth to her; and now he declares this will be the very tiling. Oh, it I only had a brother! Father wouldn’t be in such a burry if he bad a son to inherit tbe estate ! You are a lucky girl, Juliet, to have no landed property of your own. You will ba allowed to marry whom you like, for your little bit of money is of no importance.” “And what does the cousin say to this arrange ment?” Juliet asks. “ Oh, be has quite made up bis mind to it; in fact, 1 don’t know whether it was with him 01 father it first originated 1” “ And does he know you don’t want to marry him ?” “ Oh, yes, I believe so ! Father was in such a rage when I said I hated him, and couldn't marry him, that he put on his hat, and dashed across tbe grounds. I know he must have gone to Tenham by tbe bridle-path; and ho is sure to have told him everything—father isn’t good at keeping secrets, you know, especially when he is angry. Beside, when my cousin comes to tho house, I never speak to him whon I can possibly avoid it, and when he asks me to ride or walk I always decline. He must know that I hate him—even if father has not told him.” “ But doesn’t Uncle Philip insist upon your being civil to him ?” “No; he doesn’t seem to care how 1 treat him now; but he is quite determined I shall marry him in the end. He told me the other day that I might flout him as I would—it would make no difference to either of them—l should!: be the wile of Sir Evelyn Lovelace before six. months were over.” “ Is he like his name—gentle, romantic I"