text: Gee, H | M v^®enTTH?Fu^M/>.•' n 11 »\ W ra Tjjv |w fc^ 3 <■? |s| j ffifcjSfr,;. \- Y w[£ j AluMy^' x ■ |• I |■ f r~& - *-z- 'K '^^ J: ', ‘' < jil IS ¥3 Ua |\| (MYMI § | (YIM a n ii(r lY kAiAyijjy jiujxi' wit iwiio 4Oi4feJLi A ft - f9\ jrw \~ %\I a] W. I''t~ •~’ -"ts^gasag^aSSs^^—^g'^^a^C.^ sl -*^SS^^^.aiSgß 3^fc =, n- *k -.» »» w »,*«,< PUBLISHED BY A. J. WHITNEY VOL. XXXIX.—NO. 31. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Matter. THE PUBLISHED AT NO. 11 FRANKFORT STREET. The NEW YORK DISPATCH Is a Journal of light, agreeable and sparkling Literature and News. One page is devoted 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! WHOLE SUBSCRIPTIONS $2.50 a Two Subscribers: 400 " FIVE SUBSCRIBERS: 900 " ALL MAIL SUBSCRIPTIONS MUST BE PAID IN ADVANCE. POSTAGE PAID EVERYWHERE BY THE DISPATCH OFFICE Circulation Assured: OVER 37,000 WEEKLY. Address NEW YORK DISPATCH, Post Office Box No. 1775. TO THE REMINISCENCES. Ancient Anecdotes. Anecdotal Trampa-Dr. Gall’s Midget Pills —Salad of the Press-Forrest without a Shirt—Major Noah’s Little Story or Gilbert— Dummy Allen and Miss Kate. BY JOHN OARBOY. I believe that, like free lunch, anecdotes of eminent members of the theatrical profession are always in order. Even the eccentric and time-honored “chestnuts” and “Coffee-Joes” which have been traveling through the press—vagrants in every sort of disguise—are, read and re-read, repeated and reiterated, wherever I and whenever they turn up. I have met with one of the many anecdotes originally related of Garrick, which, in the century of its era, has been made to fit almost every great actor since "Little Davy" first wore it. Only a month ago it turned up, like the Clown in "pantomime," in an English paper with the stalwart Salvinrae its hero. And but a week since up it popped again—the same old Jack-the-box—in a Philadelphia paper and fastened to the name of John McCullough. Perhaps in a week or two, or it may be a month, it will go the rounds of the "patent offices" of the country press with Edwin Booth or Tom Koene as its chief factor. And escaping from the ignominy of this stereotyped duplication—presto, it will be seen as "The following anecdote of Lawrence Barrett will be read with pleasure"—in the Sunday edition of some one of the metropolitan dailies. FROM GARRICK TO BARRETT. Fancy one of the gold-laced coats worn by Garrick coming down from one generation of his successors on the stage to another, and cut and pieced and expanded and altered from one fashion to another, so that it might fit each distinguished tragedian and comedian of his age. Fancy that this garment, so patched and altered, at last making its appearance as a dress coat upon the back of Mr. Lester Wallack or John Gilbert, and its donor rubbing his hands and exclaiming: "Ah, here is something in "Isn't it fit superbly?" I remember seeing some weeks ago an old and familiar tramp of an anecdote of Mrs. Siddons, which periodically turns up with Charlotte Cushman, Mrs. J. W. Wallack —Bernhardt, Matilda Heron or some other equally well known actress as its heroine. But whose was it this time? The anecdote as originally written as an incident in the career of the great English tragedienne, was intended to illustrate her kindliness and generosity. Having nobly done duty and served its purpose in behalf of a score of actresses— I find it staring me in the face from the advertising columns of a daily newspaper, and having added to it this remarkable statement—“and nothing is so well calculated to foster and promote kindliness of disposition and liberal generosity as a healthy stomach. Use Dr. Galls' Midget Liver Pills—for sale everywhere.” Think of a carefully written anecdote of the Stately Siddons sounding down through the corridors of type only to be made the thirty-line prologue to the swelling advertisement of Galls' Liver Pills? As it need to be thirty years ago the custom of the funny men of the press to attribute all the worst and diabolically idiotic jokes and stupid play upon words to a then notorious punster named Horn, styling each of them “Horn's Last,” so immediately after EDWIN FORREST’S DEATH. Any old soldier of an anecdote, which could be found, was taken in hand and put on duty in new form as “reminiscence of the lamented tragedian.” Ancient theatrical Joe Millers were rewritten and sent to the press by that band of inevitables, anxious to see themselves in print under the names “An Old Subscriber” —“An Old Actor’s” — “A Reader,” and “A Lover of the Drama”—who vouched not only as to the truth but the originality of their stories. Whenever... An old actor dies these same stories are trotted out all over the country and fastened to the memory of the illustrious dead. Looking through an odd volume of contributions to theatrical literature a few days ago, I met in its pages a score of these anecdotal tramps, and they loomed up in all the glory of paid paragraphs, as if they had never suffered the torture of periodic resurrection by the scizzors and paste-pot man of the newspapers. It was pleasant to see them adorning these pages of a book and seeming to say, “Here we are at rest at last. We are now booked for immortality.” Alas, there will never be rest for them. THE BANDIT OF THE PRESS is ever on their trail, and he will swoop down upon them one by one-third a buzzard upon a henroost. The public must have theatrical anecdotes and its satirical glimpses of the men and women of the stage, and these veterans are doomed like so many Salathies, to wander from paper to paper throughout the world forevermore. Like so many Elijahs they are translated — but not to Heaven. Oh, no; only into the French, the Italian, the German and it may be the Russian, to return again after many days — into their original language. As an example here is one, in its book form, related of Forrest, but which has had for its hero successively, George Frederick Cooke, Edmund Keane, John R. Scott and half a dozen other eminents. This old soldier is illustrative of the privations of the distinguished actors—in their wanderings “out West.” It opens abruptly—in paged form—as thus: He (Forrest) had taken lodgings at a low-priced lodging-house in a room containing two beds—the second bed being occupied by an entire stranger to him. At rather a late hour, the tragedian being tired of longer remaining in bed, cried out to his room mate: “I say, stranger, don’t you think it’s time to get up?” It’s growing late.” “That’s just what I was thinking, and I was anxiously waiting for you to get up, as I have very strong reasons for not being the first to arise,” answered the stranger. “Well,” said Forrest, in a deep bass tone, “and what are your reasons?” “I tell you the plain facts,” was the reply, “I have never got a shirt to my back, and didn’t care to expose myself.” “By teve!” roared Forrest, “I’m in the Barnwell. Let’s jump out together!” And they did. Forrest, afterward, when at the end of this strange room, many who had then become one of the wealthiest merchants in the West. HERE IS ANOTHER OF THE VETERANS of the anecdote family. This was manufactured for the purpose of showing how Forrest became a “star.” “The circumstances are narrated to have occurred in 1825, in Albany, N.Y., on the morning succeeding the night upon which Forrest played Mark Antony to the elder Conway’s Brutus in Julius Caesar. On this special evening, Major Noah, then the editor of the Sunday Times, was stopping at Congress Hall, near the capitol, kept by ‘Old Crut, otherwise Mr. Robert E. Cruttenden. Gilfert, the manager of the theatre, was also stopping at this hotel. They met here, and Major Noah recorded the conversation afterward in his paper. Went to the theatre to see Julius Caesar. For rest, a young man of nineteen or twenty, thick set; athletic, stiff, but with a powerful voice played Mark Antony. Next day I found Gilfert rapidly eating a lunch of corned beef and horse radish. We commenced the following conversation: "Gilfert, who is that young man who played Mark Antony?" "His name is Forrest." "Where from?" "Philadelphia, I believe." "What's his character?" "Good." "Is he sober—steady?" "Yes." "Keeps good company always perfect in his parts?" "I believe so—yes." "For how long have you engaged him?" "For a year or two." "What satery?" "Very small." "I paused while Gilfert got through with his meal, and after a glass of brandy and water he looked at me across the table over his spectacles in his peculiar way and said: "Tell me, Noah, why you asked me those questions about that young man?" "Because," said I, "he has all the material of a great actor, and if his habits are as you say, I'd advise you to make a long engagement with him, and above all, increase his salary." Next day Gilfert informed me that he had been engaged in a theatrical business. Major Noah that he had decided to extend the time of Forrest's engagement, raise his salary, and further, had determined that when the Bowery Theatre opened to make him a star. “Forrest’s success on that first night at the Bowery gave him his initial prestige.” TURNING OVER THE LEAVES, I find more of the veterans, but there are two or three that are missing. Among these, the one concerning the festive supe, who, upon being informed of Mr. Forrest’s death, mournfully remarked, “Ah, yes—there’s another one of us gone!” And the ancient one, of the actor who, in playing a part in “Plzzaro” —John R. Scott being the Rolla —rushed on the stage to deliver his lines, and instead of saying, “Under yonder palm trees we surprised an old Cacique,” etc., cried out, “We surprised an old cask.” To which Scott roared out, “Roll it in!” But there is one worth repeating of Forrest’s dresser, Andrew Jackson Allen, in his time familiarly known as “Dummy Allen.” Owing to a cold contracted while on a sea voyage, he became incurably deaf. He had acted, was a very good customer, and prided himself upon his special manufacture of silver leather. Whenever he spoke of Forrest he invariably referred to him as “the boy.” One day a creditor, to whom “Dummy” was indebted to the sum of ten dollars borrowed money, met him, despite his effort to get out of the way. “Mr. Allen— I say, Allen,” began the creditor, “you would greatly oblige me by paying that ten dollars. I've waited a long time, you know.” “Oh, yes,” answered Dummy, “the boy did blayberry well, considered he was badly subborted.” “Mr. Allen,” yelled the creditor, “I’m not talking about acting. I want the ten dollars you owe me!” “Certainly; he will do better next time, for the cast will be better, you know.” “Why don’t you blow your nose, you old fool,” and then the creditor added, by way of experiment, in a low tone of voice, “Allen, let’s go in here and take a drink.” “Such obliged, I think I will. I’ve just got a rub from rehearsal, and I’m a kinder dry.” There is another one of Dummy—very ancient, and which was, I believe, originally told by Sol Smith—as illustrative of the peculiarities of Dummy—as Dummy had “lit” in a small town in Virginia, where he was hard up—“and nod aced to bid a dabe.” In order to raise the wind, he made up his mind to give the Virginians a grand balloon ascension. At the time announced there was a great rush of people from the neighboring country to see the wonderful exhibition. The balloon was all ready for inflation, when, to his horror, he discovered several rent In the paper. Presence of mind and a tight grip upon the proceeds never forsook Dummy. He mounted a barrel and informed the crowd that certain chemicals had become exhausted, and that to ensure success it was necessary for him to put off to the next village to procure them. He then mounted a borrowed horse, and, waving his hand, shouted that he would return in one hour, and then—up would go the balloon. And away he went. After riding at a John Gilpin speed several miles, he made a halt on the top of a mountain, from which he had a fine view of the village he had left. In telling the story, Dummy said: “It was the deadliest side sight I ever saw. The hubbug and disappointed people brought up the boat baggett. The fire shooting up to the horrified was sublime.” It is needless to say—so the story ends—that Dummy shook the sacred soil of the old Dominion from his boots as speedily as possible. There are more of these stories—anecdotal and reminiscent, which I will leave to their rest—brief as it will be—until their service will be needed in the obituary of some great actor, or for the advertising of the living. THE BEST BED. VIEWS OF A SCIENTIST ON THE SUBJECT. Of the eight pounds which a man eats and drinks in a day, it is thought that not less than five pounds leave his body through the skin. And of these five pounds, a considerable percentage escapes during the night. This, being in great part gaseous in form, permeates every part of the body. Part of the bed. Thus all parts of the bed—mattress, blankets, as well as sheets soon become foul, and need purification. The mattress needs this renovation quite as much as the sheets. To allow the sheets to be used without washing or changing three or six months would be regarded as bad housekeeping; but I insist, if a thin sheet can absorb enough of the poisonous excretions of the body to make it unfit for use in a few days, a thick mattress, which can absorb and retain a thousand times as much of these poisonous excretions, needs to be purified as often certainly as once in three months. A sheet can be washed. A mattress cannot be renovated in this way. Indeed, there is no other way of cleansing a mattress but by cleaning it or picking it to pieces, and thus in fragments exposing it to the direct rays of the sun. As there processes are scarcely practicable with any of the ordinary mattresses, I am decidedly of the opinion that the good old-fashioned straw bed, which can every three months be exchanged for fresh straw, and the tick washed, is the sweetest of beds. If in the Winter season the porousness of the straw bed makes it a little uncomfortable, spread over it two woolen blankets, which should be washed. With this if you wish to sleep; NEW YORK, SUNDAY, MAY 18, 1884. The bed-covering often, you will have a sweet, healthful bed. Now, if you have the bed to air, with open windows during the day, and not make it up for the night before evening, you will have added greatly to the sweetness of your rest, and, in consequence, to the tone of your health. I heartily wish this good change could be everywhere introduced. Only those who have thus attended to this important matter can judge of its influence on the general health and spirits. THE TOM LETTER. How Madame Renfers was Ensnared. What was Found between the Leaves of a Book. The Miraculous Cure of a Broken Arm. One of “The Boys of the Red House,” Rue Seville, Paris, goes into Business, and Fails. Madame Renfers was a widow lady of sixty-five, residing in an old-fashioned house on the Rue Chauvelot, Paris. Her three nieces, daughters of a deceased brother, lived with her. Their names were Marie, Blanche and Julia, and they were aged respectively, at the time this narrative opens, twenty-five, twenty-one and eighteen. Madame Renfers was born in Caen, and came to Paris at the age of twenty-three. There she went into business as a milliner, and acquired a large fortune. After she retired she lived in modest style, and gave her three nieces an excellent education. In 1873, Charles Duclos, representing himself as a young lieutenant of artillery, made the acquaintance of Blanche, who was a lovely blonde. They became lovers, and were engaged to be married. Madame Renfers was pleased with the situation, and manifested an evident regard for the lieutenant. She spoke freely to him of her wealth, and gave him to understand that, of course, it would be equally divided between her nieces, who were the only relatives she had, so far as she "Knowledge." Madame Renfers was ailing, and seemed to get no better, although she was constantly treated by her medical attendant, who had been her physician for many years. Urged by Duclos, she consulted a young physician whom the lieutenant described as a man of rare ability and rapidly rising in his profession. Dr. Manton, after a careful consideration of Madame Renfers’s case, advised her to remove to England and try its northern climate. She resolved to follow his advice, and began preparations for her change of residence. "If," said Duclos to her, "you must reside in England for five or six years, as Manton advises, it will be much better for you to sell out your Government stock here and invest in the English funds. As you know, this country is still unsettled, and we don’t know what may happen from one day to another. Moreover, you can get a higher percentage than you are now receiving. SHE WILL REALIZE. Madame Renfers thought over this advice, and the remarks made the next day by her physician led her to resolve to act upon it. "You must have your mind perfectly at rest from all worldly cares," said Dr. Manton. "Your brain requires absolute repose, otherwise it may give way, and then..." Madame Renfers trembled, and resolved to get away from Paris as soon as possible, and take her fortune with her. "Monsieur Natalier is my broker," she said to Duclos. "and he will sell out my stocks and reinvest the proceeds in the English funds." "Stay, madame," said Duclos; "let him sell out the stock—that is a matter of course; but why not reinvest yourself when you reach London on your way northward, and save the intervention and expense of a broker?" This suggestion pleased the old lady, and she determined to follow it. The stock was accordingly sold out, and the proceeds, amounting to over sixteen hundred thousand francs, handed to Madame Renfers. "Now," said she, "I will place it in the bank till I require it." "That is right," replied Duclos, "but we must hasten or it will be closed." They got into the cab in which Duclos had called for madam, and in which they had been driven to her broker's. "Drive fast," said Duclos, "we wish to reach the bank No. 39 Rue St, Honore, before three o'clock." AN UNFORTUNATE ACCIDENT. The cab dashed off along the Rue de Rivoli at a rapid pace, but as it turned into the Rue des Halles, its progress was checked, for it came into violent collision with another vehicle, and was almost upset. This accident and the wrangling which ensued occupied over ten minutes, so that when the bank was reached, it was closed. “There is nothing for it,” said Duclos, “but to take the money home with you and nobody deposit it until tomorrow.” The old lady acquiesced, and accompanied by Duclos was driven home to the Rue Chauvelot. As Duclos took his leave, he said: “This large sum may trouble you. I hardly know where you can put it. Ah! I have a thought put it between the matresses of your bed.” “That is a grand idea,” said the old lady. This was on June 2, 1874, at half past four o’clock in the afternoon. At seven o’clock a telegram reached Madame Renfers from Dr. Manton, stating that Duclos had fallen and broken his right arm at five o’clock that afternoon on his way to his apartments in the Rue de La Fayette. Blanche was especially distressed at this unfortunate occurrence, as was natural, and insisted on going at once to see her lover. Madame Renfers at first opposed this; but on Marie’s offering to accompany her younger sister, the opposition was withdrawn. A cab was procured and the two sisters started for Duclos’ residence. On reaching it they found him reclining on the bed, and Dr. Manton in attendance. The right arm was in bandages and splints, and everything was going on very favorably, the doctor said. Duclos expressed much satisfaction at the visit, and Blanche sat by his side and assured him of her sympathy in tender words. A TORN LETTER. Marie, after conversing with the doctor for... A few minutes, took up a small pocket edition of Dumas' "Three Mosquetaires," which lay on a writing desk. "I should like to read this," she said. Put it in your pocket and take it home,” said the doctor; “you will read it before Charles is likely to visit you.” She laughed lightly, and put the book in her pocket, saying, “The first time he comes to aunt’s, I will tell him how cleverly I robbed him.” On returning home, Marie retired to her room, and sat down to scan the pages of the famous novel, before beginning its serious perusal. Between the leaves she discovered the fragments of a torn letter, and saw it was in Duclos’ handwriting. As she pushed the fragments asunder, her eyes rested on one piece in particular, and she read this: "Dear wife: I shall easily be imagined, this aroused her curiosity, and, locking her door, she put the fragments together and read as follows: Rue de Lafayette, Paris, June 2, 1874, 6:30 P.M. My Dear Wife: I shall probably be able to see you in a few days, and may have good news to tell you. I and Manton have a business scheme in hand of some importance, and things are likely to come to a head very soon. Kiss Henri for me, and receive the assurance of the fondest love from August. Marie sat for some moments half dazed. That this was the hand writes of Duclos there could be no doubt. But what did it mean? This letter was written that very day at half past six o’clock, P.M., And yet at five o’clock Duclos had broken his right arm with which he always wrote. Then again the signature—August. There was some mystery here that Marie could not fathom, and she knew no one to whom at present she cared to disclose her singular discovery. Putting the fragments of the letter carefully away, she descended to the parlor, and the family at the usual hour retired to rest. STRANGLED. Next morning when Marie went to her aunt's bedroom to assist her to dress as usual, she applied in vain for admission. After trying the door and knocking loudly, Marie went to the door of the adjoining dressing-room, which to her surprise, she found open. This door had been screwed fast on the inside ever since Madame Renfers occupied the house. Pushing open the door, Marie entered the small dressing-room, and hastened into her aunt's sleeping apartment. The bed was tumbled, and the old lady lay on it, dead. The investigation which followed showed that she had been strangled, the marks of fingers being distinctly visible on her throat, which was swollen and scratched. The police authorities made a thorough inquiry into the matter, which ended in the exoneration of all the inmates of the house. That the perpetrator of the crime had come from the outside was evident, and there was only one way, it was thought, by which he could have entered the house, namely, by one of the windows of a small parlor on the lower floor. All these windows were, however, fastened with the usual hasp. But careful scrutiny showed that a narrow strip of glass had been cut from the very bottom of the pane nearest the hasp, leaving an opening sufficient to admit of the introduction of some instrument used to withdraw the fastening, and then restore it to its proper place. Small fragments of glass were found on the outside of the window frame and the stone sill, a fact which led to the belief that the piece of glass had been removed by some person working in the room. Who was this person? The motive for the crime was considered, here naturally the circumstances of the deceased woman were investigated. This led to the discovery that the day before, she had quitted her broker’s with a large sum of money in her possession, accompanied by Charles Duclos. The man, lying in bed with a broken arm, was examined by the Judge construction, who answers somewhat to our coroner. Duclos related how, when they quit the broker’s, he and Madame Renfers drove to the bank; and how, owing to an accident on the way, they were too late to deposit the money; and how Madame Renfers thereupon took it home with her, intending to deposit it the next day. Search was made all over the house for the money but it was not found. Madame Renfers was buried and the mystery of her death was unsolved. LIGHT DAWNING. Meanwhile, Mario had been revolving in her mind some singular circumstances known only to her, as the reader is aware. The more she thought over them, the more her suspicions were aroused. At length, without mentioning her intention to her sisters, she sought an opportunity to visit Monsieur Natalier, her late aunt’s broker, and to him she communicated the facts respecting the letter, the fragments of which she had found in the book and produced for the broker’s perusal. As may readily be supposed, Monsieur Natalier considered this circumstance of the first importance, and immediately drove with Marie to the residence of the Juge d’Instruction. Having read the letter and heard the facts, that official said: “This man, Duclos, engaged to Madame Renfers’ niece, had a wife living to whom he was evidently married under another name. An alias is at all times suspicious, because it implies that there is something to be hidden from the public or from certain persons. You say this letter is in the handwriting of Duclos?” “Assuredly it is,” replied Marie; “and here are several letters of his, written to my aunt, which I brought with me on purpose. Here is also the telegram announcing his accident.” “I know Duclos’s handwriting well, and this torn letter was undoubtedly written by him,” the broker said. The judge compared the writing in the letter produced by Marie with the fragments and said: "There is no doubt about this being in the same handwriting. This torn letter was written at 6:30 by a man who broke his right arm at 5 o'clock. I will attend to this Duclos and this Dr. Manton at once." A LIVELY CRIPPLE. The same day, June 8, 1874, officers arrested Duclos and Manton at the apartments of the former on Rue de La Fayette. Dr. Pourelle, a surgeon connected with the Prefecture of Police, accompanied the officers. "I will see how your fracture is getting on," said Dr. Pourelle, attempting to remove the bandages from Duclos's arm. "Oh, go to the devil!" exclaimed Duclos, pushing the doctor away with the broken limb and sending him backward over a chair. "Now," said the doctor, rising, "we must certainly see this limb, so miraculously restored in so short a time. If you resist me, it will be the worse for you, my friend," he added, in a stern tone. Duclos yielded, and the bandages and splints were removed. There was not the first sign of a fracture. The rooms of Duclos were searched and the whole of Madame Renfers' money, with the exception of a few hundred francs, was found concealed in the back of an engraving hanging on the wall. When things had reached this point, the Judge himself arrived and the two men were removed to the prefecture. fecture. Finding that it was no use longer to pretend ignorance, Manton told the story of the crime. "This man," he said, "whose real name is August Bardeure, was a medical student with me. He was never in the army. He was always a thief and a gambler and led me into his ways. He committed a robbery and had to quit Paris, and then, relieved from his presence, I passed my examination and got my diploma. I began the practice of medicine in the Rue de Mexico and was making a living, when, after an absence of five years, this man Bardeure or doctor turned up once more. He fixed himself up on me. By some means, I know not how, but I think through former confederates he ascertained all about Madame Renfers and began to plot to get possession of her money. He made the acquaintance of her niece Blanche, and told me that he was to marry her and have one-third of the old lady’s fortune at once. Then he said that the aunt was passionately attached to Blanche and desired to make her sole heir to her estate; but that, under the laws of France, she could not do this. Then he said her health was failing and suggested the scheme of getting her to visit England, where she could reinvest her money and under whose laws she could dispose of her property as she chose. I yielded to his importunities and joined him in the conspiracy." The broker's was visited late in the day on purpose to allow the bank to close, and the cabman was in the hire of Duclos and instructed by him to cause a collision and delay the vehicle, on receiving a certain signal from within the cab. Duclos, so far as I understand, has a wife residing at Nantes, and he wrote this letter—of which you have the pieces—to her. When he read it to me, I objected to his using my name in it—for Manton is my proper name and the only one I was ever known by—and he tore it up. I was busy at the time, preparing the bandages and splints for his arm, and did not observe what he did with the fragments. (Otherwise you would not have been in this predicament perhaps,” said the Judge. (HOW IT WAS DONE. “Possibly not,” was the reply. “Duclos conceived the broken arm dodge in order to turn suspicion from him. The window he prepared with a diamond while he was waiting for Madame Renfers on the day the money was drawn. He never disclosed to me the fact that he intended murder, but he did tell me that he himself was to rob the old lady and how he purposed to do it—that part of the scheme having been long on his mind and prepared for by his carefully removing all the screws but one from the door of the dressing-room, a few days before, when, at his own suggestion, he was rearranging for Madame Renfers the clothes pegs in her closet,” “Do you I know of any other crimes in which Duclos has been engaged?” the Judge asked. "He is known, I think, in both Brussels and Berlin," was the reply, "and was formerly connected with the gang of operators known as 'The Boys of the Red House,' so named from the glaring brick structure on the Rue Sevigne, where they used to meet." Bardeure, alias "Bardeure," was sent into penal servitude for life, and Manton for ten years. BLOOD FORGOLD. How Farmer Berken Murdered his Son. AVARICE'S GHASTLY CRIME A Father's Plot which a Daughter Frustrated. BUTCHERED AT MIDNIGHT. Father Berken was by no means a bad man, and his wife was cited for miles around as a model of conjugal merit. There was not a better manager than she in all Alsace. But the pair were prodigious, and for a few gold pieces would have almost pawned their good name. They were small farmers, and penny by penny had amassed a neat little sum. After fifteen years of toil they had hoarded enough to purchase their farm and a few acres of ground around it in a village some ten miles from Colmar. This, however, was not enough for them. They lived as meanly as before and still ciphered and planned to add to THEIR USELESS TREASURES. Martha, a daughter of eighteen, and a son, Jean, a year older, contributed no little to their economies. They were lusty young people, industrious and strong, and their labor saved the insatiable old people many a franc that went into the iron-bound Money-box under their bed. In an evil hour, old Berken was bitten by the speculating mania then raging in Strasburg and Colmar. He began to operate in grain, and within two years was ruined. His savings were all gone, his farm was mortgaged, and he had no money to pay the interest. Eviction and the direst poverty stared him in the face. The war broke out at this juncture and delayed the execution of judicial proceedings against him by his creditors. The old farmer hailed it with a hideous joy. He saw in it not a misfortune to his country but a benefit to himself, since it gave him a breathing spell. Avarice had extinguished all sentiments of patriotism in his heart. One evening a stranger presented himself at the farm and demanded a shelter for the night. He was the son of a rich manufacturer at Colmar, on his way to Paris to deposit a large sum of money and a number of valuable papers in safety from the invader. He was known to the farmer, and made no concealment of his business from him. The farmer assigned Monsieur Hans Dhoorer to the room of his son, who was away, and was not expected to return that night. At nine o’clock all retired and the house was locked up. Martha slept in a room adjoining that of her parents and only separated from it by a thin partition, lying awake in the darkness and thinking of the stylish young guest, she heard the whisper of conversation. Berken and his wife were talking to one another, and their daughter’s blood ran cold at the revelation of their horrible words. It will never be discovered,” said the old man. “If that were so,” observed his wife in accents of doubt. “Tell you it is so,” persisted her husband. “The country is already overrun with the Prussians. Who will be able to say that he did not fall into their hands?” “But suppose the body was found.” “What of it? Can we not always say that he left here early and in good condition, and must have been waylaid on the road? No one will suspect us — not a soul.” The pair then went on in the most deliberate and matter-of-fact manner to discuss the crime they contemplated. Father Berken had already arranged all its hideous details in his mind. From the moment Hans Dhoerer had arrived, and the farmer had discovered the precious burden he bore, the old man had been busy with thoughts of how to make that treasure his own. The young girl lay quiet listening until all was still. Then she rose and slipped out and to the room where the guest slept. He slumbered lightly and her timid rap brought him to the door at once. His surprise at discovering who his visitor was expressed itself in a sharp exclamation. “Sh!” said the young girl. “Do not ask any questions, bring your satchel and come with me.” He took up the satchel stuffed with gold and banknotes and obeyed. Arrived at her room she whispered. “Now you are safe. But mind, do not speak.” “I will only listen,” he replied, gallantly. antly endeavoring TO SNATCH A KISS. She turned on him with a gesture, and an expression which made her look superbly lovely in the flickering candle light. “For shame,” she said. “I have done you a great service and it is thus that you requite me.” He dropped his head in shame and made no reply. She locked the door, pointed him to a heap of blankets and meal sacks in a corner, and when he had curled up on them with his valise like a dog with its bone, she blew out the light and got into bed. A few minutes later a man pried open one of the shutters of the kitchen and climbed into the house. It was Jean. The young man had returned from town sooner than he expected, and knowing that his coming was not anticipated did not awaken any of his people. Thinking that all the world was asleep, he stole to his room and rolled, tired and sleepy, into the bed lately vacated by Hans Dhoerer, without lighting a candle. Shortly after midnight the door of old Berken’s room opened, and the farmer stole out with the stealth of the evil doer. He held a long, keen knife in his hand, and his noiseless steps led him to his son’s room. In that primitive community people do not lock their bedroom doors unless they suspect evil. Suspecting none, Jean slept with his door ajar. The old man entered. The old woman, listening at her window, heard the sullen plunge of a heavy body into the mill stream which ran close beside that portion of the house. She shuddered and said: “IT IS DONE.” Then she sank on her knees in prayer—in super. St. Louis atonement for a crime which she had deliberately aided to plan. She was still praying when her husband came back. He ordered her to bed roughly. His knife, which was dripping, he thrust under the mattress. “He has hidden the money somewhere,” he said, hoarsely. “Never mind, though, I will find it in the morning.” Morning dawned, and the murderer was the first to wake. He prepared himself to meet his daughter and explain the supposed absence of his victim by saying that he had been in a hurry and had gone off at daybreak. He staggered and clutched at the wall to keep himself from falling when she opened her door in response to his knock, and he saw behind her the man he thought he had murdered. “What ails you, father Berken?” asked Hans. “Why, one would say you had had bad dreams last night.” “Bad dreams!” stammered the farmer. “Ah—yes—is it possible? But what are you doing here?” “I slept here.” OFFICE, NO. 11 FRANKFORT ST. "You slept in my daughter’s room?” “There is my bed in the corner.” The farmer uttered a cry of mingled amazement and dread, and ran to his son’s room. There was the bed, empty, and red with dreadful stains; the trail of blood across the floor, and the open window. Berken struck his forehead a furious blow. “It was not he!” he gasped. "Who was it, then?” At this juncture blows sounded at the house door, and voices shouted, "Open!” Open 1" Martha hurriedly complied, and a party of peasants entered. They bore between them a corpse, covered with an old blanket—a corpse from which water reddened with blood dripped on the floor. They stared uneasily one at another, but none spoke until Hans Dhoerer demanded; "Well, what have you here?" "A corpse, monsieur." "Why do you bring it here?" "Because it is here that it belongs, monsieur; it is Jean." Martha gave utterance to a piercing cry, and dragged the blanket from the body. It was, indeed, that of her brother, in his nightshirt, and with a great cavernous wound over his heart. "We found it in the water," said the spokesman of the peasants. "The assassins had evidently plundered it of everything to the shirt. But we will find them, Father Berken, and then let them look out." The farmer made no reply. He held his wife’s hand, and the pair stared at each other with faces turned to stone. Martha was sobbing over the body. Hans touched the old man on the arm, and he broke out into a hideous, meaningless laugh, in which his wife joined him. Both were raving mad. The young man comprehended the truth. Martha’s strange visit and her mysterious words, the old man’s horror and confusion at seeing him, the bloody disorder of the bedroom, formed a conclusive and clear recital of facts to his quick intelligence. But he made no public revelation of false knowledge. "God has punished them," he said to himself. Berken and his wife were removed to a mad house, and Martha taken to the home of the man whose life she had preserved. The mortgage on the farm was foreclosed, and the Prussians burned the house down soon afterward. Today the site of this tragedy of avarice is a great field of rape seed, under whose luxuriant growth the ground stained by the blood of a son slain by his father is concealed. JOHN CRONIN’S WIFE. SHE WOULD NOT LET HIM GET WITHIN A BEAN POLE OF HER. John Cronin and his wife Caroline, resided at One Hundred and Ninety-sixth street. He now resides in the Penitentiary. She charged him when arraigned for trial with assaulting her. He had often beaten her. On the last occasion he came home and finding her in bed, he pulled her out, said that was his place, then tumbled in himself. "Had he been drinking that day?" asked the court. "Of course he had." "If he doesn’t work, how does he get his liquor?" asked the court. "He hangs around a barroom, and if a stranger enters, he makes immediate acquaintance, and of course he is asked to join in. That’s what they tell me he does. But I don’t want him punished. Just put him under bonds to keep away from me. I can support myself. I want no support from him. He is N. G." This isn’t the first time I heard that woman say I was an N. G." said the husband with a contempt. Numerous smile. "Are you a member of the National Guard?" asked the court inquisitively. "No; what she means by the N. G. is No Good." That’s a slur. This is a conspiracy, every bit of it,” said the man indignantly. "How about the assault,” asked the court. "I didn’t by any means assault her; that woman, although she is my wife, I wouldn’t go within the pole reach of her. She came to where I had been working that day and she hadn’t a scratch on her; how she got them I don’t know.” "You had been drinking that day?” remarked the court. "Not a drop. When she found I was working, her brother and mother entered into a conspiracy against me. Her brother, who is here, one of the conspirators, has been on the Island and in the State Prison. The mother is the N. G., because I never could get along with my mother-in-law, she is worse than a boil or carbuncle where you can’t—ahem. As for the wife, she prefers to sleep with her mother to me. Let her; I don’t object.” "Was your brother present when this assault was committed?” asked the court of the woman. "No; but he knows I have to get out of bed every time he (John) wants to get into it.” "Did you ever have him arrested before?” asked the court. "Once; but his boss went his bail.” "You say he don’t give you any support?” asked the court. "Not since last Summer,” said the woman. "And married how long?” "Seven years.” "That seven years I have endured All the horrors of hades," said the man. "Who has paid your rent?" asked the court of the woman. "My mother," said the woman. "I have," said the man. 