text: ik\ i ’ ~ I /Z | I w\ i g>\ I /r U’ IX\ I J JU Z7 VI loffifil S I fWI- < fW-M ""f/'fn LaIWO IJ W/U v WIMIw MI«IJLLCUHfeLL • ?.M4'W& „ ; ~" . ..4Wit?' -A-- ' A »* VOLUME XXXII. THE NEW YORK DISPATCH, T»IjISIL<ISIIEL> AT NO. 11 FRANKFORT STREET. The NEW YORK DISPATCH IB a journal of light, agree able, and sparkling Literature and News. One page is ievoted 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 •BUbnrbs, at TEN CENTS A COPY. TERMS FOR MAIL SUBSCRIBERS: (JINGLE SUBSCRIPTIONS $5 a Year. tWO SUBSCRIBERS 8 “ THREE SUBSCRIBERS 10 “ FIVE SUBSCRIBERS 15 " ALL MAIL SUBSCRIPTIONS MUST BE PAID IN AD VANCE. POSTAGE PAID EVERYWHERE BY THE DISPATCH OFFICE. TERMS OF ADVERTISING: WALKS ABOUT TOWN.. 30 Cents a Line. BUSINESS WORLD 20 “ “ SPECIAL NOTICE 18 " “ REGULAR ADVERTISEMENTS 15 “ M Address NEW YORK DISPATCH. Poet Office Box No. 177’5» The Hard Fate of the Niece .f Colley Cib ber—Joe Jefferson as a Stroller—Sol Smith’s Siekness-An Audience of One—Feeding on Toma toes—From Cincinnati to New Orleans on Foot. In this day of modern progress, improvement, refinement, luxury, and of universal prosperity for the theatrical profession, “These Our Actors” have little idea of the poverty and misery endured by their predecessors, at least the younger actors have not; but nothing to my thinking is more amusing and yet painful than to hear a group of elderly actors relate the hardships and shifts of their early days—when every star, even Forrest, would travel any distance to play an engagement for a hundred dollars a week, yes and thought it a big sum, too—but Forrest’s terms soon grew far past this, and of early privations and vicissitudes he may be said to have had comparatively few. In what may be called the primitive days of the drama, the prejudice against “These Our Actors” was so general and so strong that the price for admission to places of amusement was small, and the patronage poor, consequently poverty was the rule and not the exception among the profession; but no more singular or harder fate is on record than that of CHARLOTTE CLARKE, the youngest child of Colly Cibber. Cibber himself lived in affluence up to his death, but Mrs. Clarke had managed to offend him and be refused her any aid whatsoever, to his shame be it said. While Colley, who was poet laureate, was being buried with great honors at Westminster Abbey, his daughter was starving in a wretched suburb of London. If Mrs. Clarke had lived in these halcyon days for women, and especially for actresses, her talents could hardly have failed to make her famous and diamond-laden; but in the eighteenth century she was looked upon as eccentric, if not absolutely crazy—in proof of which is cited the fact that she had a mania for playing male parts, and could with difficulty be induced to appear in petticoats. By the same token, faith, the hordes of pretty burlesque actresses who now delight our audiences would be marred off to the madhouse. It is true Mrs. Clarke carried her admiration for male attire into private life, and when she could get nothing to do in a theatre she slipped on her trousers, and being “no whit” proud, took service as a waiter to an Irish lord, or waiter in a tavern, or opened a public house, officiating as landlord; or sometimes she got together a “snap company,” and “barnstormed” the country towns. And here it occurs to me to ask if any of the professional readers of the Dispatch can give the origin of the modern American word “barnstorming?” “Barn-door” is of very ancient English date, arising from the circumstances that the earliest strollers used to act in barns, the floors of which were almost always of earth, and to make a wooden stage, the players would unhinge the barn door, a trace of which custom we still see on the stage in Irish dramas when a barn door is laid down for a couple to dance on. An erudite actor has suggested that the word must have arisen from “barn door,” and “storming” a town, or taking it by storm—hence “barnstorming.” This is ingenious, but a better definition would be more satisfactory, and will have to be given by the future lexicographer of theatrical technicalities. But to venture to Charlotte. On one occasion, being driven to desperation by want, she took to the highway. Knowing that her father was traveling, and putting a pistol to his head, she made him surrender his money. Doubtless she only wanted to frighten the old man into opening his purse-strings. She had married badly twice, and her attempts to earn a living were as singular and varied as they were unsuccessful. She opened a little grocery store at another time stood in the streets with a basket of fish, when Cibber happening to pass, and sharply remonstrating with her on the lowness of her pursuit, she snatched a pair of soles from her basket and “slashed” him over the face. She would engage to play the season through men’s parts only, such as Roderipo, in “Othello.” Again we find her working the wires of a puppet show, the strolled for nine years, walking nearly the length and breadth of England in that time. At last she reached London, and there wrote her autobiography, her writing desk being a pair of bellows, which she held in her lap. For this manuscript she received the magnificent sum of £10, which she invested in opening a little inn in Islington; but notwithstanding her predictions for the life, Charlotte evidently not knowing how to keep a hotel, again failed, and was, as she had often been before, thrown into prison for debt. Whereupon happened that which, I venture to say, never happened to an actress before, namely: that frail sisterhood whose goodness of heart is proverbial for the distressed, made up subscriptions among themselves and obtained her release. With not a roof to cover her or friend to help her, this poor outcast took possession of an abandoned hut in the open fields, where people dumped their ashes and other rubbish. Here she sat herself down on the clay floor and wrote a novel. Think of this, ye be-ringed and pampered actresses of today! Her literary merit must have been considerable, for before the book was finished, a publisher found her out, and offered her £10 for it, which was humbly and eagerly accepted by the famishing female tramp. She dashed up to London and managed to get herself up a charity benefit, which took place at the Haymarket, in 1759, where she played Marplot in "The Busy Body." She addressed a touching appeal to the public for their patronage, saying that she was entirely dependent on chance for a subsistence, and that she was desirous of "settling into business," probably opening another tavern; but her ambition in this respect was not destined to be gratified, as she died the following year, as poverty-stricken and as wretchishly as she had lived. At the date of her death her sister-in-law, Susanna Cibber, was at the zenith of her fame, playing Juliet to Garrick’s Romeo. Thus lived and died Charlotte Clarke, Colley Cibber’s daughter. Very appropriately he wrote: "Fathers have flinty hearts—no tears can move them." This actress was the mother of the strollers, Queen of the barnstomers, and many of our own poor players have followed in her footsteps. JOE JEFFERSON AS A STROLLER. Among those who live to tell the tale of what they have gone through, there is an utter absence of false shame about it, and those who now roll in their carriage often have a hearty laugh over the days when they went out at toes and elbows. Here is a story the great Joe Jefferson tells, though it loses in print: His father had what was then called either a “strolling company” or a “gagging scheme.” They had wandered almost to the other end of the world, namely, New Orleans, and were there stranded (in a little tavern waiting for some windfall to get them out of town) Joe was a long, lean, hungry boy of thirteen or fourteen years of age, with the ruinous, devastating appetite peculiar to growing lads. Green corn had just made its appearance, and Joe used to devour from ten to twenty ears at one sitting, of which, at length, the landlord complained to his father. “My boy,” said the elder Jefferson, taking Joe aside, “you know our situation in regard to this landlord. You will eat us all into the street. I beg of you to moderate your appetite for green corn—fill up on something else. Eat two or three ears at the outside." The boy promised to do so; but the watchful father kept an eye on him during the beginning of dinner, and Joe dutifully confined himself to the prescribed number of ears; but Mr. Jefferson’s attention being called off, the boy fell upon the plate and devoured his usual quantity of the succulent vegetable, but artfully pushed the cobs nearer his neighbor’s dish than his own. The father suddenly turning, frowned ominously at sight of the huge heap, but Joe, tipping his chair back of the man next him, panted so persistently that the husks belonged to him, that the father’s suspicions were disarmed. Who would now surmise that our great comedian ever had to satisfy his appetite by stealth? Hardship and poverty were the common lot of these our actors in those days, particularly in the West. SOL SMITH’S SICKNESS. Aol. Smith, the founder of the brilliant theatrical family of that name, lived in my father’s house in Cincinnati one whole Summer. Oh! those terrible long Summers, how they were dreaded. Salaries during the Winter barely sufficed for the current expenses, and it was almost impossible to put by anything “for a rainy day,” consequently the Summer was one continued fight with him. We would enter, he could not PUBLISHED BY M. A. WILLIAMSON. Be kept out. There was then no “jobbing whereby an actor might look forward to earning a few dollars, even in the dullest time; no snap companies going out for the fourth, or playing a few nights here and there in the cooler country towns; but when the regular season was over, the actor had to subsist until the following Fall without earning a penny by his profession. Sol Smith was a kindly man, with a great deal of grim humor, and a brave endurance of the hardest fate. So tall was he that when he tossed me up in his arms I used to think he would throw me into the skies. To my childish imagination he seemed many miles long. That Summer his hat covered all he owned. His pantaloons were of some soft, woolen material, of light color, which caused them to soil easily, and as he was a very clean, particular man, the pants needed frequent washing, so he used to lie in bed while they were rubbed out in soapsuds. It seemed to me such a strange thing that Mr. Smith would lie abed the whole, long, lovely Summer’s day on the plea of sickness, while at the same time my father would sit by his bedside, and they would crack jokes together, and laugh till they both cried. And such an omniverous appetite! He would rise up in bed like a steeple, and with the suspicion of a smile flitting over his lips, he would say: “Bring me another plate of asparagus, sissy; poor Sol’s sick.” It was singular, too, that the date of his recovery was invariably coincident with that of the delivery of his pantaloons, washed, dried and ironed. Each time he would unfold them he would exclaim with a sigh, “At least another inch gone this time.” By the beginning of August the pantaloons had shrunk so that they no longer reached to the ankle bones. “I shall save them, Mrs. Logan,” he would say, “for a pair of knee-breeches, Mrs. Logan.” He had a habit of repeating a person’s name. At length he started out, and was gone on some mysterious errand for nearly three days. This caused a good deal of alarm, as he was a domestic man, and did not gad about. He returned one day with a parcel under his arm, which he undid, and brought out a pair of cotton pantaloons of a large check pattern, such as were thought extremely elegant in those days, but would now delight the heart of an end man. “See, Mrs. Logan, look Mrs. Logan—I’ve got them, Mrs. Logan; been on the go three days.” Airs. Logan; searched the town through, Mrs. Logan—the only pair in town long enough for me, Mrs. Logan—and they beauties. Airs. Logan? I’m convalescent, Mrs. Logan—and they beauties. Logan—shan’t have another sick day this Summer, Mrs. Logan.” And he hadn’t. Taking us children by the hand, he danced and sang with us as merrily as a boy: “Ring around a rosy A pocket full of posey.” This is all I remember of Sol Smith. Hardworking, persevering, temperate, simple in his tastes and habits, without ever making any great sums of money, Sol managed to leave a snug partnership to his children, who inherited his talents and his sunny nature. Poor Mark is still regretted by the profession and the public. AN AUDIENCE OF ONE. My father, like most actors of that olden time, had a mania for management, and usually it took an itinerant form. In a Canastoga wagon, with the company and scenery packed inside, he would stroll through State after State. The fastest walker would be sent ahead to “bill” the town a day or two previous to a performance, said bills being as often written in my father’s boldest hand as printed. New York State, now so excellent for theatricals, was then a very poor field, nevertheless my father was fond of strolling through it. One Winter had been very severe and the heavy snowstorms had greatly impeded the actors’ primitive mode of travel. After several weeks of shocking bad business, the old wagon was unloaded at Auburn, “loveliest of the plains.” Here the company fondly hoped to have one or two paying houses. The bills had been out two days, and the momentous night came around. There had been a snowstorm during the day, but still the company hoped that the powerful attraction offered, “The Merchant of Venice,” (cut to suit the small company) and a “roaring” farce, would tempt the good citizens of Auburn from their warm firesides. The hall was brilliantly lighted by half a dozen tall candles, set in sconces, a sort of tin candle stick made to hang up, and their light disclosed, when the curtain was rung up, one man in the room. My father stepped upon the stage and politely informed him that there being no one present but himself, and no likelihood of an increase in the audience, it would be impossible for the performance to take place; whereupon the audience arose in his turn and replied: “Sir, I live ten miles back in the country, which ten miles I have this day walked in the snowstorm to witness this performance. I have made arrangements to remain in Auburn overnight, but at daybreak tomorrow I shall start and walk back, making a distance of twenty miles. Moreover, I have honestly paid fifty cents to come in, on your representation that the entertainment was worth seeing. I have never been in a theatre before, but having heard a great deal about this Shakespeare, I have availed myself of this opportunity to see what he is like, and I think the show ought to go on just the same as if the house was full. "It shall, sir," was my father’s rejoinder. "The man who has walked twenty miles to do reverence to the great bard, deserves some token for his appreciation. Take you seat, sir, and the performance shall take place." Did a troupe of actors in this country ever before or after play to one spectator? At the performance, the man rose, thanked the actors for the pleasure they had given him, and retired in good order. FEEDING ON TOMATOES. Such business could not put money in the stroller’s purse, and the Spring found them on the road almost famishing. The fare that they purchased at the wayside was of the poorest and most meager. One day they halted before a substantial-looking farmhouse, and asked if they could be furnished with a meal. The farmer interrogated them very sharply as to who they were, and why traveling in bulk. “Play-actors!” he cried. “No—not a mouthful of Christian food do you get here!” They remonstrated, pleaded, and at length, on account of the women and children, he was moved to say: “There’s nigh a field full yonder, over-run with that new-fangled yarb, tomattuses. We are all afraid to eat them, for fear they’re poisoned. I was fool enough to plant them for an experiment. They ain’t no good to me, but if you choose to take the risk of poisoning yourselves, you’re all welcome to go into the field and eat and take away all you want. If they kill every one of you, why, a lot of actor folks don’t matter, nohow; only don’t die at my door.” The tomato either was an entirely new vegetable then in the United States, or unknown in that section of country. However, it was, the actors knew nothing about it, and were afraid to eat it, hungry as they were; but my father assured them that he had read about the tomato—that it was not only in oculous but beneficial to the system, and agreeable to the taste. “In short, boys,” he said, jumping into the field, “we’re in luck.” The rest followed suit, and the whole company—men, women and children—not only made a hearty meal on raw tomatoes, but they filled their pockets, handkerchiefs, bags and baskets full of the delicious vegetable. FROM CINCINNATI TO NEW OR LEANS ON FOOT. My father emigrated to the West, and there endured many terrible vicissitudes before being enabled to live in comfort. We resided in Cincinnati, but on one occasion he was offered a profitable engagement in New Orleans, which he accepted, leaving the family in a little home in the former city. The journey was expensive, and the summer to be got through. My father determined to walk to New Orleans along with a fellow actor, whose name I forget, who was engaged in the same city. They had just so much money between them to make the journey on, and they determined that they would not go by conveyance, except where water made it necessary. They had taken nothing but what they wore, their wardrobe was to be sent after them. They started delighted at the prospect of their jaunt, but unused to walking they soon grew footsore, and to make matters worse their money gave out much sooner than they had calculated upon. It was the fashion for men to wear in Summer a light shoe, which was in two parts, the front part extending up over the instep, and the back laced in front by three or four eyelet holes. As it fortunately happened, my father wore his shoes out only on the head of the foot, the other man on the heel, so that when both pairs of shoes were worn out in those places, the friends cut the old shoes apart, threw away the bad heels and toes, and joining the least worn parts made one decent pair, which they took turns in wearing. When these gave out they went barefoot. My father would never give full particulars of what they looked like when they arrived in New Orleans after having been almost all the Summer on the road, but my earliest remembrance is of the strictness of his orders that in our modest household not a crust of bread should be wasted or thrown away—that no one who ever asked for bread should ever be refused it, nor given a dry piece, my mother therefore always fried the spare bits and gave them warm to the poor. After this trip too, people hinted that he was a trifle crazy because he had a mania for collecting boots. From every city, every village, he went to the star. With my sister Eliza, he sent home boots, shoes, or slippers. He kept one room to store them in, a regular shoe shop it looked like. He was determined he said to provide against ever being without a pair of boots while he lived. Nor was a man ever denied a pair who asked for them. Many a dark, dirty face has frightened me, peering through our kitchen window, but my mother would often cry out before a word was spoken, “what number?” Even in those hard drinking days of the Far West, the actor was a Pariah, but the beggars blessing rested on at least one outcast actor’s home. A gentleman in a stage coach, passing through the city and observing a handsome edifice, inquired of the driver what building it was. The driver replied, “It is the Ubitarian Church.” “Unitarian!” said the gentleman; “and what is that?” “I don’t know,” said Jehu, “but I believe it is in the opposition line.” NEW YORK, SUNDAY, FEBRUARY. 1877. TELEGRAPHIC SHIPPING, The Bank President’s Dispatch. AN AUDACIOUS SCHEME. Detected, but Beyond the Reach of Pursuit. Sailing Service to a Penitentiary Himpleton. A CONFESSION AND A MURDER. A Scoundrel’s Conviction and De served Punishment. “Can you send this dispatch tonight yet to Philadelphia?” said a well-dressed, middle-aged man. Aged man, on the 3rd of October, 1854, to the telegraph operator at Wheeling, Virginia. “It is 11 o’clock at night already, Mr. Bradbury,” replied the telegraph operator, “but I will try hard to get the telegram through. Will you be kind enough to write it?” “I have written it already, sir,” rejoined Mr. Bradbury. “Here it is.” “A very long dispatch, Mr. Bradbury,” remarked the telegraph operator. “And so far as I am concerned, a highly important one, sir. Read it.” The telegraph operator read as follows: “To the Bank of Eastern Pennsylvania—Philadelphia—Pay my agent, who will call upon you and show you a copy of this dispatch, at sight $31,000. Keep copy of this dispatch, and telegraph at once that you have made the payment. It is important that he should receive the whole amount in coin. So give him no check, except one which may be immediately payable in gold. John L. Bradbury, President Manufacturer’s Bank of Wheeling.” “Now, Mr. Bradbury,” said the telegraph operator, after reading the dispatch, “I see this involves a very important transaction. Suppose I do not get it through tonight?” “Then telegraph it as early as you can tomorrow morning, sir,” replied the bank president. The gold is to be paid for a ship-load of railroad iron. My agent is in Parkesburg. He will be here tomorrow morning, and will leave for Philadelphia by the 2 o’clock train tomorrow afternoon. So he will be in Philadelphia in the morning, day after tomorrow, in time for the purchase of the railroad iron.” The bank president paid $6.20 for the dispatch, and then took his departure. The telegraph operator sent the dispatch, requesting from his colleague in Philadelphia a return telegram, certifying to the receipt of the dispatch. Twenty minutes later the receipt arrived. In the meantime, the operator sat buried in profound thought. At last he sprang to his feet. "I will do it," he said to himself. "I must have that money. I can be in New York tomorrow in time for the Liverpool steamer. But if they should catch me? Bah, nothing can be found out, because I shall be able to prevent the Philadelphia Bank from sending the return telegram until I am out of the reach of pursuit. If I do not do it, I shall have to live for the rest of my days upon mere starvation wages. In England I shall assume another name, and with my capital get along swimmingly." He took the manuscript of the dispatch, locked the office, and went to the Ohio Hotel, where he penned the following note: "Superintendent Bayless: I am too sick to come to the office today. Will you please excuse me? I shall be all right tomorrow. I send the key to the office with this note. Adolphus Kearns." The hotel clerk promised Mr. Kearns to send this note, together with the key, at an early hour in the morning to Telegraph Superintendent Bayless. "I am very unwell tonight," said Kearns to the hotel clerk, as he took his departure. "I am going home now." He did get home, but merely to pack his small leather trunk. After doing so, he wrapped himself in his overcoat, put on a slouch hat, which concealed nearly half his face, and then by a circuitous route went to the depot of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. He bought a ticket for Harrisburg, where he took the Pennsylvania Railroad. At one o'clock he arrived in the City of Brotherly Love. He Bond directed his steps to the office of the Bank of Eastern Pennsylvania, and presented there to the cashier the manuscript of Mr. Bradbury’s telegram. The cashier did not for a moment suspect that he had to deal with AN AUDACIOUS SWINDLER. “You are Mr. Hickox?” he said to Kearns. “That is my name, sir,” boldly replied Kearns. “Is it necessary that you should receive the whole sum of thirty-one thousand dollars in gold right away, Mr. Hickox?” asked the cashier. “It would put us to some trouble to get that amount in coin before tomorrow morning; but then you can get it, say at ten o’clock.” “That will suit me very well, Mr. Cashier,” rejoined Kearns. “Only I should like to have about twenty thousand dollars in bills right away. I desire to pay over that amount to a firm on Water street this very afternoon. The remainder you may pay me in gold at ten o’clock tomorrow. Will that suit you?” “Perfectly, Mr. Hickox. Gold is at one-eighth percent premium.” “Oh, never mind that,” said Kearns. “If the firm on Water street is satisfied with the twenty thousand dollars in bills this afternoon, which I suppose it will be, you need not bother about the gold premium. But before you send the dispatch in answer to Mr. Bradbury, I should like to see you.” “He will not telegraph to him until the whole amount has been paid to you, Mr. Hickox,” replied the cashier. “Very well, sir; I shall be here tomorrow morning.” Kearns Jumping into a hack he drove to the depot of the Pennsylvania railroad and took the next train for New York. He arrived here at six o'clock, and learned that a Collins steamer would leave at an early hour in the morning for Liverpool. Twenty-four hours later he was already far out at sea. On the 21st of October, he landed at the great port on the Mersey River. He boldly stopped at the Adelphi Hotel, where he registered under the name of James Fremont, from Boston, Massachusetts. Next day he went to Birmingham, where he easily succeeded in obtaining a lucrative position as head bookkeeper in the office of a wealthy broker, with whom he deposited four thousand pounds sterling. As a matter of course, the impudent fraud committed by the faithless telegraph operator was detected on the day after he had drawn the money from the Bank of Eastern Pennsylvania, and he was traced even to the office of the Collins steamship company, where it was ascertained that he had purchased a first-class ticket for Liverpool. The next steamship bound for the same port did not sail until six days later, and not until two weeks afterward, Mr. Fink, a smart young detective from Wheeling, took passage for Liverpool in search of the fugitive. The detective remained nearly three months in England, but, notwithstanding his most earnest and energetic efforts, he was unable to discover even the slightest clue to the whereabouts of the fugitive. The fact was that Kearns, under the assumed name of James Fremont, was leading most of his life at Birmingham. Mr. Sexton, his employer, was delighted with him. He often declared that he had never had a more intelligent and industrious bookkeeper. Kearns pretended to be a very pious person. He never missed church; he became an active man in the home missions among the factory laborers in Birmingham. His principal attention, however, he devoted to the study of the Bible, and his efforts were rewarded by the success of the enterprise. To Miss Victoria Sexton, the maiden sister of his employer. Miss Sexton was considerably younger than her brother, who was a bachelor. She was by no means bad-looking, and, considering that one-half of the capital invested, in the broker’s business belonged to her, she ought to have been considered an eligible wife for a young business-man. But she was not endowed with even a modicum of brains, and everybody in the town looked upon her as little better than a simpleton. But this did not prevent Mr. Kearns from paying the most assiduous courtship to her. One evening, in May, 1855, Kearns and Victoria were seated together in the parlor. “Mr. Fremont,” said Victoria to him, “can you keep a secret?” “Of course I can, Miss Sexton.” “I have not even told my brother, Mr. Fremont, but you are so good toward me I can trust you. My aunt Gertrude gave me the other day nine thousand pounds in bank notes.” “Nine thousand pounds!” ejaculated Kearns. “Yes, Aunt Gertrude is so funny. She dislikes my brother. She expects to die soon. She is worth twenty thousand pounds. I was her heiress, she said. After her death, she added, I should get the other eleven thousand pounds.” “But where do you keep large sums, Miss Sexton?” asked Kearns, with a strangely lurking expression of countenance. “In the top drawer of my bureau, Mr. Fremont,” she replied. Next morning Miss Victoria Sexton was found in her bed with HER TH ROAT CUT from ear to ear. Her brother, the broker, was untiring in his efforts to ferret out the murderer. Mr. Kearns also seemed to be intent upon discovering the cowardly perpetrator of the heinous crime. Pretending to believe that the murderer might have fled to Liverpool, in order to take a steamer there for some foreign country, Kearns obtained from Mr. Sexton the key to the gate, in order to take three hundred pounds from it for expenses that might arise. Two hours, after Kearns had left for Liverpool, Mr. Sexton went to the safe in order to take an insurance policy from it. He discovered at a glance that everything valuable had been abstracted from the safe, the whole loss amounting to nearly thirty pounds. As a matter of course, no one but his bookkeeper could have committed the theft. Without delay, he telegraphed to the police of Manchester and Liverpool to have him arrested. At the Cross Street railroad depot in Manchester, a detective laid his hands upon Kearns. The latter turned deadly pale. “I did not do it!” he said. “Do what?” asked the detective. “I did not kill Miss Sexton,” faltered Kearns. He was taken back to Birmingham, and there he confessed that he had murdered Victoria. A true bill was found against him, and, at his trial, the jury found him guilty, but recommended him to mercy. The Judge sentenced him to death “at her majesty’s pleasure.” “At her majesty’s pleasure,” in the judicial phraseology of England means penal servitude for life.” There is probably no phase of prison life, in any part of the civilized world, worse than English penal servitude. When Kearns had served a week of his endless term, he confessed that he had committed the swindle at Wheeling, Virginia. He hoped that he would be extradited to America in order to escape the misery of his lot in England. But no attention was paid to his confession. Composed of felonies. Thieves and lawyers in League. A PREMIUM ON ROBBERIES. What Has Been Done in This Way in the Past. SOME MORE RECENT CASES. Are Lawyers Exempt from Legal Punishment? Defrauding Widows and Orphans termed “Gross Irregularities.” The arrest of the Northampton, (Mass.) Bank robbers—James Dunlap, Robert Scott and William Connors—in this city and Philadelphia, and their statements made in connection with their case, has called attention to the workings of certain lawyers in this city, and a question has arisen whether the District Attorney would not do well to look into the matter, and prosecute certain lawyers for compounding felonies. The facts seem to be that certain lawyers and thieves are in league, or if not actually in league, that the thieves know that they can count on the lawyers to act as go betweens in procuring the return of the plunder for a consideration, one of the stipulations being that the thieves shall not be molested or prosecuted for the special case under consideration. In the past, there were at least two well-known law firms who received a large revenue for transacting this kind of business. THE NORTHAMPTON ROBBERY. The cashier of the Northampton (Mass.) Bank was awakened, and found by his bedside seven men, who, with drawn pistols, compelled him to arise and give them the keys of the bank, and one of the four combinations of the lock of the vault. The other three were known respectively to the President, one of the Directors, and a teller, and Neither were supposed to know anything but his own part of the combination. It required the presence of the four to open the vault. The strange part of the affair was that with only the one-fourth part of the combination procured from the cashier, the thieves were enabled to open the vault doors and carry away money and valuables amounting to $720,000. The affair, of course, created a profound sensation not only in the quiet New England village, nestling under the shadow of Mount Holyoke, but elsewhere. Efforts were made to discover the burglars, but without avail, by the police of Boston, New York and Philadelphia, and by Pinkerton’s, and other detective agencies. A considerable amount of the property taken away consisted of U. S. registered bonds and railroad bonds, besides miscellaneous papers, valuable to the owners, but of no use to the thieves. None of these, of course, could be negotiated. There was no question but that the thieves would endeavor to negotiate for a return of the property, and this soon came in the form of overtures from a law firm in this city. The matter was taken into consideration by the officers of the bank. They were willing to pay a percentage to recover the negotiable securities, but they would not agree not to prosecute criminally the thieves in case of their arrest. Many of the special depositors, who had lost large amounts, were exceedingly anxious that a compromise should be reached which would have the effect of restoring to them a portion of the property lost. No agreement could be reached, and the negotiations were broken off. Meanwhile, however, Pinkerton’s men had ascertained by various clews, followed up while the negotiations were in progress, who the thieves really were. When the negotiations were broken off, therefore, requisitions were obtained from Gov. Rice of Massachusetts, and the suspected men were arrested.—Connors at Solari’s restaurant in this city, and Dunlap and Scott in Philadelphia. They were taken on to Northampton to await a trial. THE LORD BOND ROBBERY. The theft of three tin boxes, containing United States bonds and stocks to the amount of $1,700,000, from the office of Rufus Lord in William street, was the beginning of a series of robberies, perpetrated apparently partly with a view to what could be obtained in ready cash, and partly with a view to securing a percentage on the valuables which could not be disposed of in open market. Very soon after the robbery Mr. Lord was approached by parties who professed to be able to restore his valuables to him for a consideration. The old gentleman sturdily refused. He declared that he did not attach sufficient importance to the robbery. cient value to the vast sum stolen to wish to recover a considerable portion of it in that way. The thieves were represented by a firm of lawyers, who were unremitting in their efforts to have a compromise effected, and certain police officials and a well-known Tombs Police Magistrate, since dead, when asked for advice, were decidedly of the opinion that it would be better to compromise with the thieves. All this time the thieves were in this city, and “Hod” Ennis, since known to be the principal of the gang, often met the police officials who were supposed to be working up the case. He and others were arrested, but released, and the officious Ward detectives who made the arrest, were advised not to meddle with what did not concern them. They took the hint. Well, the upshot of the whole matter was, that Mr. Lord, becoming weary of the delay, and seeing that the police officials who were engaged on the case did not intend to make any real effort to bring the thieves to justice, consented to pay for the return of his property. Some of the non-registered bonds had been disposed of by the thieves, but the greater part of the stolen property was returned. The settlement was made on the basis of 25 percent for non-registered bonds, and percent for the registered bonds, which were practically useless to the thieves, because they could not be negotiated. Just how this large sum, amounting to something over $20,000, was distributed, is known only to those who actually participated in it; but it is asserted that there was a regular divide, in which thieves, lawyers, police, and magistrate participated. The Royal Insurance Company, BOND ROBBERY. This was followed soon after by the theft from the office of the Royal Insurance Company of a tin box containing $250,000 in Government bonds. The same tactics were adopted in this case as in that of the Lord bond robbery. The overtures for the return of the bonds came through a law firm claiming to be respectable, and which has a professional standing at the bar. The resident manager of the company, however, held out. He was a Scotchman, and decidedly opposed to paying for what belonged to him. He could not understand why these men who had robbed him, and whose names were in the mouths of the police and others, should not be arrested, and an effort made to recover the stolen property. His remonstrances were so strong, in fact, that one of the principals was arrested. There was a long and tedious examination, ending with the discharge of the accused. Then there was some sort of a compromise, by which a portion of the stolen property was returned. It is worthy of note that the thief who was arrested and released here, was subsequently rearrested, tried, and convicted at Elmira, and served a term of year's in State Prison. Going abroad, he was arrested in Paris while plying the vocation of a pickpocket, and, with a confederate, was convicted and sentenced to a long term in prison within a week after the offense was committed. THE THEFT OF $56,000 FROM THE CENTRAL NATIONAL BANK. One morning, the President of the Central National Bank had occasion to take from the safe $56,000 in United States bonds. They lay on the table beside him, in a room opening off from the main office. He had occasion to leave the room for a moment, and when he returned the bonds were gone. No one had seen them taken, but a man answering the description of “Dutch Heinrich,” a famous thief and pickpocket, had been seen in the main office a few minutes before the package was missed. Heinrich was arrested and locked up at Police headquarters. An hour afterward, a well-known lawyer, who always had the preference when an arrest of this kind was made, and who had on many other occasions acted as a legal go-between for the thieves and the owners of stolen property, put in an appearance at Police headquarters and held a long interview with the imprisoned thief. Now, there were two curious results grew out of that interview. The bank, in a mysterious manner, received its package of bonds intact, and it is understood, paid a good round sum therefor, and Heinrich was released, when taken before Justice Dowling, because there was no evidence to warrant his further detention. A GOOD DEMAND FOR CONVICTION. These were only for the robberies that occurred, one following each other very closely, and in no instance was there a conviction. 