text: Ik\ I Z“ In! I t i *%. 1- i v 11, \ }Sf AjLjy AuJ Wy Av! v WraK JL/°J A ’X J rirrb- • 2? .JJ B^^^^BBawMM€^^ | W6BRBHgSßgg^MSy^^PgßW^wß^Kaw<riiHWMng : PUBLISHED BY A. J. WILLIAMSON’S SONS. VOL. XLI.--NO. 30. Entered at the Pest Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Matter. THE NESV YORK~DISPATCH, PUBLISHED AT NO. 11 FRANKFORT STREET. The NEW YORK DISPATCH is a journal of light, agree able and sparkling Literature and News. One page is de voted to Masonic Matters, and careful attention is given to Music and the Drama. The Dispatch is sold by all News Agents of the city and Suburbs, at FIVE CENTS A COPY. TERMS FOR MAIL SUBSCRIBERS: SINGLE SUBSCRIPTIONS $2 50 a year TWO SUBSCRIBERS 400 “ FIVE SUBSCRIBERS , 000 “ * ALL MAIL SUBSCRIPTIONS MUST BE PAID IN AD VANCE. POSTAGE PAID EVERYWHERE BY THE DISPATCH OFFICE. 'AtrartM NEW YORK DISPATCH, Post Office Box No. 1775. PLAYS AND PLAYERS. A. TS’!* A Business-Mianager’g Return—Pericles Gitin on the Road—“ Snaggs’s Body- Snatchers Combination” — Some Packed H<mses”-Striking a Moral Town — The Truthful Press Agent—“l’m All Right Fin ancially ”—“ Ila ve You a ■Dollar in Your Clothesl” “Give Me a Dift, Old Chappie.” BY JOHN CARBOY. Ono afternoon lakt week I m6t an old acquMnt ance in the person of—well, not to expose his iden tity, I will call him Pericles Gitin. He was just sauntering out into the open air from the portals of a beer dive on Fourth avenue—with in easy lassooing distance of the Washington etatue. Opposite him, across the avenue, Union Square Park was giving bud of promise that soon the Summer crop of birds in the trees, bummers on the tenches, children on the green and bunko steerers on the broad paths would crop out and bloom and worry the gray-coated policeman as in all the other bummers of this decade gone by. Pericles Giton was, is, and probably will be until he makes his last exit from life—a business-manager or press agent for some star or combination. During the season just now ended, he was the advance business-bellows and press-worker for the "great and unapproachable" company which was playing "the thrilling, sensational, realistic, and soul-shivering drama of "Snaggs, the Body Snatcher," now in the nine hundredth week of its run on the London stage, where each night the house is so densely packed that before the curtain rises on the first act the overflow of those who cannot get in fills all the other theatres in the city." That's the way Pericles puts it to the gay public and press on the road. And when Pericles Gitin makes a statement of this kind, he knows what he is talking about and who he is talking to. He means it, every word, and his hearers are bound to believe him. They know that the press agent or business manager is the very soul of truth; A VEHICLE LADEN WITH VERACITY. and who would gasp with horror should any one even hint that he was suspected of prevarication. All press agents and business managers are equally as sensitive in this regard. Pericles had the same familiar swing of the arm, the same smile of welcome, the knowing wink of the eye, and the same—no, not the same, nattiness of attire. His cutaway coat had a dusty look, the buttons were worn and polished; his shirt collar was frayed on the edge, and the stunning solitaire, which once impressively gleamed alone in its glory. Upon his bosom was gone. “Hello!” said he, extending his hand with the same air of bonhomme with which he usually greets an editor when he wants a half column of free puffing for his insertion of a three-line advertisement; "Hello! old boy. Here I am, you see. Just closed our season—thirty-two weeks; could have filled up time on return dates till the middle of July, but company worked so hard, you know traveling, acting, orations, triumphs, banquets, receptions. You know it is, old boy—it’s awfully tiresome." "Rats!" I mentally remarked. Then unto him innocently propounded the query; "Well, how was business on the road?" "How was it? Great Caesar! Why, there wasn’t a night that we didn’t turn away people enough to—to fill your Academy of Music. Out at Skowhegan-best one-night stand on the road when it don't rain, the Methodists caught our overflow—more than a thousand people—turned it into a camp meeting revival and converted the whole batch. When, two days afterward, Haverly's Aggregated exaggeration company opened out—they hadn’t enough. Money in the box-office to buy a glass of beer for the basso." Side speech again—"Rats!" "How was it?" I told you it was the biggest season I ever had. One week at Chicago—right in the middle of Lent, raining-storming—the strike fever—rumors of the cholera—all the theatres against us—with all these —we netted—eight thousand one hundred and thirty-one dollars and five cents, and the manager—you know old Mac—McVicker?—for his share collared five thousand and fifty dollars. You don't believe It? I can show the figures in our books. Figures never lie —except on a lottery book and in early election returns. "I tell you we hit 'em hard everywhere. I played it strong on the jays and hayseeds out in Coldeck, on the Big Maumee. When I made the date I didn’t know it was a religious town—and we were down for two nights. The town hall was the theatre. The Mayor didn’t want to give us a license. An idea struck me. If it had glanced off and struck him, it would have paralyzed him. I told him we were doing missionary work in disguise—merely to catch the wretched and unrepent cut sinners who never could be halted into a church —or to a Christian lecture; that our manager was himself a retired minister whose sands of life were still running in the good cause, and that all the members of the company, male and female, were followers of the meek and lowly; that at each of our performances— I called them meetings to him— we gave to every person admitted, a handsomely bound Bible as a souvenir, and on the day after each performance, we contributed two-thirds of the gross receipts to the ministers and churches, and that I wanted him to honor and Assist us by contenting to act as chairman of the committee to receive and distribute the funds. "That was the corker. He came down like Crockett’s coon did, that old bayseed Mayor and the con." Side speech—"Ratal" to Pericles: "And did he got anything—eh?" "Get—get? What do you take me for? Yes, he said—he got left. I telegraphed on to our manager to "DUX UP A GROSS OR TWO OF BIBLES; "cheap ones, you know. He went to a bible house—where in Cincinnati then—told the publishers he wanted them for free distribution among the poor; they thought he was an itinerant in the good cause, let him have all he wasted for almost nothing, and they came. "Well, sir, I worked that town to the queen’s taste. I sent cards to all the ministers, with seats; filled the play as. The Redemption of Snaggs; or. There’s How the Fallen, the great moral mystery of the endorsed by the Doan of Westminster Abbey, Dim. Talmage, Bellows, and the Rey, B. W. Boocher, as a Sermon from the Stage!" At this moment there came upon the lively count of the truthful and sad expression of drought—a dryness, so to speak; and it was made the more positive by a suggestive glance of his eyes toward the entrance to the beer dive. I understood the symptoms. They meant thirst. We entered, and the spirit of unrest was satisfied. Then he went on to relate how the Town of Colchester suffered. "We packed that town-hall plum full. The crowd was so big it fairly bulged out the side walls. Receipts, four hundred dollars; second night, four hundred and forty-one dollars. All the good people in the place wore there to see 'The Redemption of Snaggs.' "When the fifth act ended, with Snaggs stabbing his mother-in-law with a bread-knife, gathering up his two-year-old 'kid' by the heels and using it as a club to knock out the policeman who had arrested him for highway robbery, the deacons began to look queer. Some of them went out. The second act, which depends for its interest upon a picturesque poisoning of a hoary-headed father, the abduction of the heroine, and a game of draw-poker between four villains of the deepest dye, did the business. The audience leaked out of the place in pairs and quartets and in single file, as best they could, slowly and looking like a bereaved family funeral procession." "THE MORAL OF THAT SERMON" "settled them. We didn’t play there the next night. In the early morning we took the 4:30 train on a hundred-mile jump, and—well, I should like to have seen that moral old mayor when he started in to go for us next morning. Wasn’t it a touching sight to see those old hayseeds and their wives and handmaidens roll their eyes in holy horror, pucker their lips, and rise up like ghosts and silently meander out. Some of the old guys groaned as if they were in the last agonies of sudden and unexpected martyrdom." Again I mentally repeated "Rats," and then of Pericles made the inquiry: "You go with the company next season?" "Well—no. You see I need rest. Fact is, I have an idea of catching on and getting into an easier swim than melodrama. Burlesque or comic will about fit me. I’ve been back only four days, and I’ve already had half a dozen offers; but I couldn’t think of them. Fact is, when a man's in demand, then’s the time for him to hold off—wait. The longer he holds off and don’t seem to care, the higher will be the ante on salary. D'ye observe the point?" "Ratal" Then to Pericles—" Of course you’re all right—financially—the Snaggs Combination paid you a good salary—and expenses with extra allowance for working up the towns and all that sort of thing?" "My boy—Financially I am All right. Pericles Gitin is not the individual who permits himself to get left very frequently. No, sir. I propose to Summer at Long Branch. That’s the place where a fellow can turn a corner without being buttonholed by snap fakes and dime museum talent. If I am short of money I’ve only to drop a line to my old friend Wallack. Dear old generous-hearted John Gilbert, Palmer, Jim Collier, Stetson—any of the regulars you know—for a twenty-five or a century—and it’ll come by the next mail. "Have another boor—eh? All right— I think I’ll go to the Casino tonight. Rud. Aronson sent me a box with his compliments— I think I’ll use it. Anything to kill time you know and get the dust of the road off oneself. Drink hearty." We absorb. By the way—take a cigar—eh? No! I—sorry—I rarely smoke myself—haven't had a cigar between my lips all day. Fact. Bad for the health." At this moment the barkeeper thought that it might be a good "cap" for the house to get in his little compliment. So he politely held out a flor fuma box of suspicious looking cigars—evidently five centers, with "Take a cigar gentlemen." Pericles loftily lighted one, placed it in his mouth as he remarked, "Well if I must, I must—it won’t do to offend the giver." For a man financially well fixed he had, I noticed, a most peculiar backwardness in coming forward in settlement for the refreshments. I knew him in times past to be as generous in his habit, as FREE IN EXPENDITURE and as prodigal socially, when he had money, as heart of bon vivant could desire. But now—well! I merely made the memorandum on my mental tablets. "Rats!" An hour later we separated, and the parting was fraught with such sweet sorrow that it must not go unrecorded. We had shaken hands—he hadrily waved his hand—"Good day"—and I had turned away, and supposed he had re-entered the saloon. Ten—tw Twenty steps had I advanced when there came a tap on my shoulder—and heard the sound of the voice of Pericles Giton. "By jove, old chap," he said; "I say, have you such a thing as a dollar to spare in your clothes?" My money's in the hotel safe—fact is, I thought I'd brought out enough for the day's expenses—but, damn, I just remember that I sent a fiver out of it to the Actors’ Fund—you know. Thanks, ever so much, old boy—I’ll send it to you—tomorrow tonight. So sorry to trouble you—all right—ta ta.” "Rats!" And he was gone. I have since met him and received the loan. I have also since learned that the Snaggs combination success on the road was one of Pericle’s imaginary fabrics—and that it went to wreck on its second month out. That the remains of another company which hard gone to pieces were gathered into the fold by the persuasive eloquence of Pericles and his manager, and "Snaggs the Body Snatcher" was given to the yokels in little out of the way—off the railway circuit towns on the ten-cent admission plan, with such success that on three or four occasions the receipts came near to paying expenses. And one night memorable for aye—was it in the calendar of the season—the receipts were so encouraging that the manager, rendered prodigally reckless by the possession of such a "boodle," actually gave the members of the company two dollars each—the first money that had gladdened their sight on account of salary since they started in. And this was my Prince Pericles Gitin’s brilliant season. And still there are people, a few of the infidel sort—who have no confidence in the truthfulness of the average press agent or Business manager's statements concerning the success of his "show" when he turns up "on the square" at the close of his season. These unbelievers murmur as they listen "Rats!" Only this and nothing more. Now I rather like Pericles—as I like all who are in his line of business. They have the courage to stare defeat in the face, snap their fingers at misfortune and with the melodious strains of their chin music—vitalize dead failure into the temporary seeming of a very lively and healthy success. Your Pericles Gitins are never out of the swim, and being in it they are bound not to sink out of sight—if talk can keep them afloat. P. S. I have just received a note from Pericles. It is dated—and is written upon the note head of the Sturtevant House. He doesn't board or lodge there—but a little matter like that is of no consequence. This is the note: "I have, after much persuasion on his part, accepted an engagement as general business manager from Chizzola for his next season. Salary big—do as I please—you know. Now my dear old chappie give me a lift won't you in your items next Sunday—won't you? Yours p. g." "Rats!"—I had given him the "lift"—as above—before his note reached me. She Withdrew the Complaint.— When Master Ulrich Eger went up to the bar to answer the charge of assaulting young Mary Imbert, the Court was very much surprised to hear her say she wished to withdraw the complaint. "Do you know the defendant?" asked Justice Kilbreth. "Yes." she replied, "Why do you want to withdraw the complaint?" asked Justice Murray. "We are engaged," Mary replied, blushing. "Let her withdraw." “said Justice Paterson smiling.” The Withers withdrew. MARIETY OATH. The Fate of Filka Natuschky, a Pretty Russian Peasant Girl. Drugged, Ruined and Lashed Like a Dog. BOOMED TO SIBERIA FOR LIFE. Compassionate Kindness of the Poor. A.Y. Am'bviscatlo in the Forest — A. Terrible Sentence — Blood in the Air — The Wolf Avenger. Filka Natuschky was one of the prettiest girls in Russia. Her eyes were very large and blue, her hair like finely spun gold, her lips as red as blood and her figure was one that an empress might have envied. Yet she was very poor and belonged to a very poor peasant family, so small that it consisted only of herself and her mother, a sick and prematurely old woman, who was seldom out of bed on two consecutive days. She had some relatives, several versts away, poor peasants like herself, but she and they never troubled themselves about each other. Beyond these she had nobody—that is, if we do not count young Lars Ivanovitch, the well-to-do horse-dealer's son, who was a student in St. Petersburg and who—as she very well remembered—had told her that he loved her. But he was so far away from Varin, the poor hamlet on the estates of the rich Count Ivan Solavieff, where Filka lived—that he, she thought, might never come back to her. When she thought that, she was sad and silent, but at all other times, although she had to work so hard to support herself and her poor mother, she was light-hearted and sang like a bird. THE WICKED COUNT IVAN saw her, admired her beauty and made advances to her, which were scornfully repelled. Even had Filka been less young and pretty, and good, she might still have been excused for wishing to keep out of his arms. He was a middle-aged, ugly, monster of vices and excess, drunken, lustful, capricious and cruel. His character was well known to everybody far and wide, and on the occasions when he was home from the capital, the peasants in and about Varin—who had for many generations of forefathers been serfs on the Solavieff estates—were in constant dread of him and used to hide their prettiest daughters from his sight. Poor Filka had nobody to hide or protect her. It was consequently a very great anxiety removed from her mind when, one day in the early Winter of 1863, she learned that Count Ivan had, after an unusually long stay at his home, again gone off to the capital and would not be at all likely to return before the next Spring, or even Summer. Little did she then comprehend his Villainy and Power. When he went away he left behind him his unscrupulous tool, a scoundrel named Peter Shishkoff, who had instructions to carry out, in the most expeditious manner possible and without regard to cost or consequences, certain plans formed by the count, that concerned the peasant girl very much more nearly than she dreamed of. About a week after the count had taken his departure, Filka Natuschky disappeared mysteriously. It was known, that she had, about dusk, left a house where she had been working all day, to return home to her mother. The distance she had to walk was not half an hour’s journey for a strong active girl like her, and but a very little part of the way ran through the forest. Beside, it was popularly believed that her father, who had been a wood-chopper and acquainted with much strange forest lore, had bequeathed to her the secret of a powerful charm, and, even if she had not such a charm, there was no danger, for Winter had not yet set in with sufficient severity to render the wolves desperate with hunger, and none had been seen near Varin. She could not have lost herself, and nobody would for an instant imagine that she would run away from her poor old mother, Catherine Natuschky. What then could have befallen Filka? Simply this; that Peter Shishkoff, aided by two other ruffians, had waylaid her in a lonely place, overpowered her, gagged her, pinioned her hands behind her, wrapped her up so well in robes and furs that she was almost smothered, flung her into a sleigh and driven off with her at the full speed of their three horses—hitched in Russian fashion, three abreast. They drove for hours without stopping, always at a furious pace. Then, in a wild and lonely spot, she was unbound, allowed to sit un, and given some refreshment, food and wine. She fell asleep from exhaustion "some time toward morning, but was uninterrupted. The horses were galloping before her when she went to sleep, and still galloping when she woke. She wondered if they would ever tire. The fact was that they had been changed while she slept. Some time that day Peter Shishkoff said to her. You are now a very long way from Varin, where you would only find strangers if you could summon anyone by your cries, and whatever you might say would not be believed, for I carry an order in writing from the Czar, for your arrest. My arrest! Where are you taking me, and why am I arrested? I must not answer your questions. You will know all in good time. I only speak to you now to let you know that you will be no longer bound and gagged, if you will swear, on the Evangels, that you will not make an outcry or attempt to let anyone know that you do not journey voluntarily. Before I answer that, will you tell me what is to become of my mother? A kind woman will take care of her until you return. My return! Ah, then I am to return? Very well, then, yes; I will swear to keep quiet, but I will also. SWEAR TO BE AVENGED Upon you, if you have not told the truth and anything bad happens to my mother. He smiled deprecatingly, and she took the required oath. The scoundrel, no doubt, lied about having an order from the Czar, as he certainly did about there being any arrangement to take care of Catherine Natuschky. But his lies served his purpose, and kept her quiet for the rest of the journey. Day and night their horses galloped on tirelessly, scouring plains, darting through forests, flitting by small roadside hamlets, rushing across frozen rivers—on, on, and ever on—she could no longer conjecture whither. This continued for twelve days and nights. Twice, in the night, their sledge was pursued by wolves, but they could not outrun the swift horses, and when Peter shot two of them with his revolver, the others seemed discouraged and gave up the pursuit. Filka became so weary that she dozed, in a semi-swooning condition, half the time. It was during one of her lapses from consciousness that the sleigh reached its journey’s end. When she returned to herself, she was being lifted out of the sleigh, in the dark interior court of some huge building. A PRISON, as it seemed to her. It was at night, and servants, carrying torches, stood about in silence. She was so cramped in the sleigh, that when she stood up she could hardly walk. A French woman assisted her and led her to a luxurious room, where a bath, a delicious supper, cheering light and comfortable warmth awaited her. Better still, the woman spoke very kindly and sympathizingly—though in rather bad Russian—to her. That night Filka slept long, peacefully and undisturbed, in such a magnificent bed as she had never dreamed, could exist. During three successive days and nights she received the utmost attention and kindly care, but it did not escape her observation that she was indeed in a prison, for her windows were heavily barred with iron and the doors were secured by ponderous locks, and never opened except for the French woman or some servant to pass through. The woman, who said that her name was Florine, would not tell her where she was or what fate was in store for her, but otherwise was kind to her. Every day they dined and supped together. On the fourth evening, after supper, Filka found herself feeling as she had never felt before. A STRANGE FEVER seemed to riot in her veins, strange and wicked thoughts that made her blush take possession of her mind. Thirst tormented her. Florine encouraged her to drink a glass or two of sweet wine, telling her that it would make her better. Instead of doing so, it seemed to make her worse. Her mental perturbation and physical uneasiness increased. Eventually, she lost consciousness. When it returned to her, hours afterward, she found herself in bed, unclothed, and beside her, with his satyr-like lace grinning in triumph, laid the wicked Count Ivan Solavieff. It was in his mansion that she was a prisoner; that he might effect her ruin, she had been kidnapped from her home, carried there, and drugged, and his purpose had been fully accomplished. Shame and grief almost crazed her, but neither her lamentations, prayers nor threats, could save her from the brute force of the count. He was determined not simply to betray, but to conquer her, and, prostrated as she was, this victory, for which he had awaited her awakening, was not difficult of attainment. In one of her paroxysms of indignant rage, she was rash enough to make use of the name of her lover, Lars Ivanovitch, and to threaten that he, when made aware of her great wrong, would avenge her. Count Ivan seemed to take no notice of what she said, but made a mental note of it, nevertheless. NEW YORK. SUNDAY. MAY 9. 1886. An hour after he had left her, while she was sobbing upon her pillow, the false woman, Florine, who had drugged her, with placid assurance, entered the room, bringing her breakfast. Filka, at sight of her, was overcome by an uncontrollable fury, and sprang upon her like a tigress, beating her down, pounding her and screaming incoherently. Count Ivan rushed in with a dog-whip in his hand, and lashed the poor girl’s bare back with it cruelly until The blood was starting from the cuts in a score of places, and she was fain to sue for mercy, promise slavish submission in the future, and HUMBLY BEG FLORINE'S PARDON. That pardon was accorded fully, for Florine admitted to herself that the girl’s action was quite natural and hardly to be blamed. So she not only forgave her, but even gave her what, from her point of view, was good advice. "Come," she said, "be sensible and make the best of the situation. It is not so very bad, after all. Girls are apt to overrate the importance of such incidents, I know, I have done so myself. But, after all, what does it matter? True, the count is not quite as handsome a man as one would like, but you can put up with him for a while. In a few months he will tire of you, as he does of everyone, and then he will let you go. And if you please him, meanwhile, you will not go away empty-handed. Then you can easily, being so pretty as you are, find some nice young man who will be glad to marry you. Of course you will not be such a fool as to tell him what has happened, and if you do not, nobody else ever will. So then you can be quite happy all the rest of your life." Filka listened to her with mingled wonder and disgust. But her spirit was quite broken and she dared no more resistance to the will of her master. A few weeks later in her captivity, Count Ivan visited her one morning, saw her richly dressed and then led her through a suite of several rooms to the front of the mansion, where she had never been before, and bade her sit down and look out of the window. In a few minutes a mournful train of hands-cuffed and chained together, passed by. . Among them, Filka recognized the lover, lost to her forever, as the world was henceforth lost to him, Lars Ivanovitch. She looked at him with stony horror, in a grief too deep for tears or speech. "I see you recognize him," spoke the rasping voice of the Count over her shoulder. "I thought there might be something in what you said, and that he could perhaps be annoying sometime. So, I have had him convicted of Nihilism and sentenced to Siberia for life." "What does it matter—now?" was all that fell from her cold lips. But that night her brain reeled and she raved, until the dog whip was again brought into requisition, and after that she had a brain fever that almost carried her off. Only three weeks of her violent illness were sufficient to make her so haggard, and white, and old, that when Count Ivan saw her again he was quite disgusted with her appearance. She got a little stronger, physically, but her mind remained weak. One thought constantly occupied her, even to the exclusion of grief for her lover or desire for revenge, and it was to escape. No such close watch was now kept upon her as had been formerly, for Count Ivan, being weary of her, did not care a button what became of her. Hence, though the poor girl imagined she was achieving something wonderful in doing it, she was simply allowed to walk out of the house and wander off when she saw fit to do so. Having upon her only a house dress when she escaped, she was most insufficiently clothed to encounter the rigors of a Russian winter, and it was probably expected by Count Ivan that she would freeze during the first night of her exposure, which would rid him completely of all possible annoyance by her turning up again. She did not do so, however. A kind-hearted monk met her and carried her home to his wife, a good soul, like himself. They were poor, and all about them were poor. But out of their poverty they felt that God had given them enough to aid one more wretched than themselves. So they put upon her some old and far from cleanly clothing, made of sheepskins, peasant’s substitute for the furs worn by the rich, unsightly, but warm. And they kept her a few days until she was a little stronger. Then, as she was constantly pleading to be allowed to go “BACK TO MOTHER.” They knelt with her before the ikona — or saint’s image in the east corner of their best room—prayed for her guidance and protection, and let her go, neither she nor they then knew whither. For a little time she wandered aimlessly, having forgotten where she wished to go. Then she remembered the name of the place, Varin, and kept on repeating it to those she met. The Russian peasants are naturally kind to those in distress and especially so to those mentally afflicted, for whom they show a superstitious tenderness. So they helped her on her way to Varin. When she was hungry they gave her food; when she lost some of her sheepskins they replaced them; when they could they carried her, sometimes considerable distances on her way; always they directed her aright, encouraged her and gave her shelter. And thus, after many weeks of sore toil she made her weary way back to Varin. It was wonderful that the wolves did not devour her in some forest through which she passed, for there were many of those ravenous beasts, and the long, hard Winter had made them gaunt and mad with hunger. But the Omnipotent Power seemed to have her in keeping. She went straight to her old home in Varin and pushed open the unlocked door. The house was empty, silent, cold and dark. Of the first one she met then she asked: "Where is Catherine Natuschky?" The person addressed, who did not recognize her, replied, "You must be a stranger to ask that question. She was found in her bed a corpse, "DEAD OF HUNGER AND COLD." The next that Filka knew, she was in the house of Maruk Ivanovitch, the horse-dealer, surrounded by his family, who shed many tears for her, seeing her in that condition and remembering what she had been and knowing how dear she had been to Lars. And by degrees she told them all; how she had been carried away and sacrificed to the selfish lust of that fiend Count Ivan; how he had cruelly lashed her with his dog-whip; how she had, in her agony, threatened him with her lover’s vengeance and how he had plotted that her dear Lars, and theirs, should be sent to Siberia for life. Then stout Maruk Ivanovitch stood before the kona, with bared head and upraised hand, and took a solemn oath that he would avenge Filka and his son upon the ruthless noble who had wrought such woe upon them and also upon the wretch who had carried the girl away. The Count Ivan Solavieff returned home about this time. He had met with some very heavy losses at the gaming-table, and came here, not only to recruit his finances from some strong boxes that he kept hidden away in the vaults of his country house, but to compel his attendant to invent some new ways of screwing money from the unhappy peasants on his estates. It is possible that he would not have come had he known that Filka had got back home, and that her terrible story of outrage and wrong had stirred to purposes of the heart of Maruk Ivanovitch and a hundred of his friends, all, indeed, to whom it was made known. Within a week of his return home, Count Ivan went out in the forest, on horseback, accompanied by his tool, Peter Shishkoff, and his intendent, Rashkin, a hard and cruel man. They went to view the progress of some wood-cutting that the intendent had commenced. On their way back, at a turn in the road, they were surprised to find themselves confronted and quickly surrounded by a large number of men armed with pitchforks, scythes and clubs. The intendent was the first to take alarm, and wheeled his horse to flee, but the stroke of a scythe hamstrung the beast, who dropped upon his haunches, and the intendent rolled over on the ground, where he received such a crack on the skull from a big club as made his brains ooze out and finished him at once. Count Ivan and Peter were not so fortunate. Both were seized and dragged from their horses. Then they were bound, hand and foot, and thrown upon a sledge, along with a live sheep, and the sledge was started, with their captors walking on each side of and behind it, toward the depths of the forest. “Where are you taking me, you dogs?” demanded the count. Maruk Ivanovitch looked him firmly in the eyes, and replied, in a stern voice: "You have ruined Filka Natuschky, and have sent by boy Lars to Siberia for life. The devil only will be able to punish you as you deserve, but we will do what we can to help you to him. We are going to feed you to the wolves." A cry of terror burst from the lips of the doomed men, and their faces turned ashy pale. Count Ivan offered them hundreds, thousands, aye, a million of troubles, if they would spare his life, and would take his oath that he would never prosecute one of them. Let them feed Peter to the wolves if they wished, but spare him! They answered him not a word, and went on steadily into the forest. Very far from any road or habitation they went, so far that no cry wrung by keenest torture from human lips could by chance be heard. There they halted. Ropes were brought to view, and with them Ivan and Peter were each tied to a tree, within a rod of each other. With some difficulty they were fastened up so that their feet were about four feet above the ground. "We are putting you up there," Maruk explained to the count, "in order that the wolves may not be able to get at your throats and kill you too quickly. In this way they can begin at the feet and eat up gradually." In vain were all the almost insane pleadings, threats and promises of the count and his servant. Their executioners seemed deaf. The sheep was taken from the sledge, its throat cut and its blood scattered about on the snow and the trees, after which the carcass was put back on the sledge to be hauled away. This was to attract the wolves. A lupine nose can detect the scent of blood at an astonishing distance. It was still daylight and the wolves, if there were any near at hand, were overawed by the presence of so many men, and did not permit themselves to be seen; but hardly had the sheep’s blood been scattered about when they went up from a skulking beast in a covert not far off, and was answered by another and another fur-starred aith gnihnbtnf. The howls seemed to multiply themselves in all quarters, and soon long, gray, shadowy forms, with long, white fangs and gleaming eyes, could be seen darting here and there among the underbrush. The avengers at once set out for home. Numerous as they were, it was no longer safe for them to remain in the forest, for the ravenous wolves, madened by the smell of blood and gathering in great numbers, might even attack them and compel them to fight for their lives. For a long time they could hear the insane yells and ravings of the wretches fastened to the trees, but before those sounds were quite lost they changed to shrieks of agony and mortal terror. The wolves had found their prey. Nothing was ever found of Count Ivan and Peter but a few gnawed and scattered bones. The Arm that was Severed At the Elbow. The Present which Monsieur Rothier Received. A. Strange Patient at the Hospital of Louis. “In Memory of the Night of April 27, 1830,” Mons. Theodore Loque was a resident of Paris, France. He was a tall, slim man, with black hair and beard and deep-set eyes, of what color no one could say. Moreover, he had lost the right arm above the elbow. What his business was, his neighbors did not know. He seemed to have plenty of leisure, and had been often seen coming home in the early morning, not always sober. He had a wife, or a woman who passed as such, and three young men, ranging from nineteen to thirty, were supposed to be his children. The house he occupied was in the Rue du Petit Muse, near the Rue St. Antoine. It is not a nice street, by any means, and the people who lived there were, for the most part, not very well off, and were vulgar in their habits. Mons. Loque’s house had no pretensions to style, but it was a large house for a family of five, and the neighbors often wondered what Mons. Loque did with so much accommodation. On the evening of September 10, 1852, while the streets were thronged, for it had been a very warm day, Mons. Loque brought home with him a stranger. It was about nine o'clock in the evening, and many of the neighbors saw the arrival of the newcomer. He was a man of about thirty-five, well dressed, and carrying a leather valise. He wore a mustache, and had light hair, which was not cut very close. He had the look of a person in a walk of life very superior to that of M. Loque. Andre Lo que, the second supposed son of Mons. Loque, was about twenty-one years of age. He was employed in a lawyer's office as a clerk, dressed pretty well, conducted himself with propriety and was a member of a local literary and debating club. He associated but little with the members of the family, and it was observed that he often passed them on the street without favoring them with more than a glance. An hour after the arrival of the stranger before alluded to, Andre Loque reached home. As he passed the parlor door, he saw the stranger there. The sight startled him, but he said nothing, and sought his own apartment. There he mused for some time, in fact until the clocks struck eleven. Then he heard the footsteps of two persons ascending the stair and the voice of his father was audible. He knew that his father was showing the stranger to a sleeping room on the third floor, or attic, of the house. WHAT ANDRE SAW AND HEARD. Andre, as soon as the two persons passed to the top story, opened his door and listened. Then he ascended the stairs to the attic, using great care so as to make no noise. His father and the stranger were talking, but what they said was inaudible to him. Presently Mons. Loque came to the door and Andre retreated into a room. Mons. Loque, leaning over the bannisters, gave a gentle whittle. In response thereto Mons. Loque’s two sons, Simon, the eldest, and Charles, the youngest, came from below and ascended the stair. Then the three entered the room occupied by the stranger, leaving the door ajar. Andre came forth from his hiding place and listened. "He is gone off," said the father, "and now for my revenge. I've waited for it for over thirty years with impatience, and the time has come. Here is the chloroform, Simon. If he moves, give him a dose, though I think the drugged wine will keep him still. Now, I am going to do it with the self-same knife. See! I have carried it all these years, and once and again I have sharpened it so that it might be ready. Do you agree with me in what I purpose to do?" "Certainly," said Simon; "you have suffered all these years, and now you can have vengeance." "I am with you heart and soul, my father," the youngest son said. "Every time you have shown me the stump, since I was a mere child, and told me how you intended some day to repay the debt you owe Monsieur Rothier, I have hoped that the time would soon come." WHAT THE RELIGIOUS CALL PROVIDENCE. 