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EDWARD W. GREEN.—[PHOTOGRAPHED BY MR. R. J. CHUTE,
"No, you needn't," replied Mrs.
W. "I guess I'll put it on. It'll carry easy that-a-way."
And suiting the action to the
word, she clasped the glittering trophy round her wrist, and walked majestically
out of the place.
The cheap jewelry period has
expired, thought I.
"Do you know that lady ?" asked I
of the salesman, whom I knew quite well.
"No, do you know her, Mr. Tomkins?
She has a smack of 'shoddy' about her, I should say."
"Probably," I answered; "or the
equivalent of shoddy. Her name was Jaynan Hubbs when I first knew her, and her
mother was my laundress. Subsequently she married a 'boss' soap-fat man, as I
was told, of the name of Weevil, and—"
"Weevil!" exclaimed the salesman.
"Why, that's the man that has made such a pile of money out of a contract for
the hides, hoofs, and the other remains of the slaughtered cattle of one of our
armies. He's just bought Ducksandrake's splendid house out, Gooseberry Street,
you know, and they're going to give a tremendous opening ball or soiree, or
something, next week."
"What, at this season?"
"Oh! they'll find plenty of
people to go. Besides, now I remember, it's a matinee, by-the-by. So he was a
soap-fat man, eh? Ha! ha! ha!"
Two days after this little
incident I received, very much to my surprise, the following card, splendidly
embossed and engraved in bronzed letters "old English" style:
Mr. and Mrs. Weeville
May the —th, from 2 till 6 P.M.
[RECEPTION AND BANQUET.]
No. 5 Gooseberry Street.
I did not go, however. My
afternoon, that day, was spent in one of the Soldiers' Hospitals, where I wrote
sixteen letters from sixteen poor fellows to their families. It wasn't as
brilliant an entertainment as I should have enjoyed at Mrs. Weevil(le)'s,
probably. But quite as useful and instructive, I fancy.
At any rate, I don't regret my
absence from the one, nor my presence at the other scene of our domestic drama.
Here ends, for the present, my
"ROMANCE OF A POOR YOUNG WOMAN."
MALDEN BANK MURDER.
THE murder of FRANK CONVERSE, on
the 15th of last December, by EDWARD GREEN, whose portrait is given herewith,
has excited the most intense interest. The murder was committed in the
prosperous village of Malden, a few miles out of Boston, on the Boston and Maine
Railroad. It was done at noonday, in a Bank, situated in the business part of
the town, and yet so secretly that it left no trace of the doer, and the
murderer passed from the banking-office to his own place of business, with no
more suspicion attaching to him than to any other man at that time walking the
streets of Malden. The victim was a boy of seventeen, son of the President of
the bank, and was alone in the directors' room, in charge of $5000, which had
just been counted out to him by the cashier for business use. The murderer
having made a visit to the bank
earlier in the day for the purpose of reconnoissance, immediately upon the
departure of the cashier returned, and finding young Converse alone, drew from
his pocket a six-shooter, and, placing the muzzle within a foot of the boy's
head, fired, the ball entering back of the ear; another discharge was then
lodged in the temple of the victim, who had fallen to the floor. To secure the
bills in the drawer was the work of a moment, and the next the murderer mingled
with the innocent passengers on the street. That a murder and robbery had been
committed was all that transpired at the time. About three weeks afterward
certain suspicious circumstances
led to the apprehension of Mr. Bailey, who, upon examination, was acquitted. The
name of the real murderer was not mentioned or thought of in connection with the
crime: he was not one of the witnesses on Bailey's case, nor was he even
mentioned in the inquest. But the "miraculous organ" through which the secret of
murder always finds its way into publicity speaks through silence no less surely
than through overt expression; and, in this case, the fact that there was one
individual—the Postmaster of Malden—who never showed any interest in the murder,
nor in the most casual manner ever mentioned it, drew
the attention of two detectives,
Heath and Jones, who were determined to ferret out the criminal, and also of
several prominent citizens. His utter silence was the beginning of the net which
soon began to close about the murderer. The other steps followed rapidly after,
and as a natural consequence. The bills which had been taken were all of the
Malden bank; the Postmaster was known to be involved in debt, and this would
doubtless have been the motive leading to the crime. Totally unaware of
suspicion, and placed, as it seemed, by his responsible position in society
beyond all chances of suspicion, he would venture to pass, at least in Boston, a
considerable amount of the plunder in payment of his dues. He was watched by a
special detective every time he came to the city; and, step by step, the
suspicions which had been aroused ripened into conviction. He had paid a debt of
$700 in Malden Bank bills, and other debts of $20 and under in the same money.
This, taken in connection with the remarkable silence of Green on the subject of
the murder, furnished indubitable proof of his guilt, and he was arrested Sunday
evening, February 7, at the residence of Mr. Lamson, whether he had been
invited. He exhibited very little feeling, but confessed his guilt as soon as he
found that he had been watched for the last month, and informed the detectives
that they would find the rest of the money, part of it in the post-office, where
it was concealed in an old boot, and the remainder in the attic of the Volunteer
Fire-Engine House. The arrest of Green caused considerable surprise among his
fellow-citizens, who had reposed the most complete trust in him for years. The
photograph which we give was taken about a fortnight after the murder—over a
month previous to his detection. Green is a young man of between twenty-seven
and twenty-eight years of age, and rather short in stature. He has a wife and
infant child. His wife is an estimable lady, and the fate of her husband excites
in her the most heart-rending grief of which a true and honorable woman is
SHELLING OF A
WE give on this page a sketch,
sent us by an occasional artist, of the destruction of an Anglo-Rebel
blockade-runner, which was discovered on the morning of February 2, upon the
rising of the fog which generally conceals the fleet and the shore during the
damp nights of this season. She was a handsome, long, low, white, side-wheel
steamer, built on the Clyde, having two smoke-stacks and two masts, of some
seven hundred tons burden. The tide was down, and she was fast aground off
Sullivan's Island. Four
Monitors moved up in line in the beach channel,
and poured their ricochet fire into her, while our heavy Parrott guns on Fort
Strong (Wagner) and Battery Chatfield opened a steady fire upon her. The result
was a hot engagement, which lasted all day, with all the rebel works on
Sullivan's and James islands, and the destruction of the blockade-runner close
to the wreck of the Isaac Smith, whose iron hull is all that remains of that
steamer, imbedded in the sandy beach before the fort. The event was a source of
great excitement for our brave fellows during the day, and agreeably diversified
the monotony of the siege.
SHELLING A BLOCKADE-RUNNER AGROUND OFF SULLIVAN'S