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M hJm I PIBIffIB Bl A. J. WILLIAMSON’S SONS. v6E""x£7»S6. iti.. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Matter. THE 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 900 “ ALL MAIL SUBSCRIPTIONS MUST BE PAID IN AD VANCE. POSTAGE PAID EVERYWHERE BY THE DISPATCH OFFICE. */ Address NEW YORK DISPATCH, Post Office Box No. 1773, THEATRIC REMINISCENCES. THE MAN IN THE GRAY ULSTER. The Gathering in “The Criterion”—Ent er the Survivor of a Wrech—A Little Game of Draw Poker—The Private Bottle Imp—A Long Wait Between Drinks -Studley’s Job—A Diwy with Dittenhoctfer, Etc. BY JOHN CARBOY. In camo a now addition to tho transient popu lation of tbo Hon. Charles Collins’s Oasis, otherwise and more familiarly known as “TheCriteri n.” Mr. John Matthews sat near the window gazing meditatively upon a miniature portrait in oil of his only love, “ Dorcas,” painted on ivory and set in a diamond-encrusted medallion, presented him on last New Year’s day by Gus Williams. Mr. Tom Morris was leaning over a table commit ting to memory a leading Herald editorial, as a spe cially funny gag to be used at some future time in a low comedy part. Mr. Jerome Eddy was embracing his devoted friend and boon companion, Fred. Warde, in a far corner. Charley Gaylor and George Clarke were hobnob bing over a sociable game of cassino within easy reach of the free lunch end of the counter. John B. Studley and John having a Jolly time in the back room playing draw-poker—for a pot of Injunctions—Dittenhoeffer running the table. Jim Collier looking in at the door and asking if anybody had seen Buchanan lately with a society drama marked "for the Union Square Theatre received on account in advance, seven hundred dol lars”—in his coat tail pocket. Cazauran, near the bar counter, pronouncing a panegyric upon the intellectual greatness of his dear friend Roche. A group of half-a-dozen professional deadheads concocting a series of resolutions thanking Joe Brookes for refusing them permission to look upon the remains of Riston during their late exhibition at the Star Theatre. The Hon. Charles Collins in his little den recover ing from A SUDDEN ATTACK OF MENTAL PARALYSIS, caused by tho appearance of a dollar bill in the hand of a disengaged fake. Into this picturesque tableau came the new ad dition to tho transient population of the Criterion. Ho camo in arrayed in a long gray ulster, the tails of which fanned the run down heels of his worn gaiters, which wero apparently covered with the dust of miles upon miles of good walking. His gait upon entering, was of that lively quality, which usually attends the locomotion of a debtor dodging into a blind alley to avoid a coming creditor; his facial expression was as bright, joyous and hopeful, as that of a wedding guest making a bolt for tho reception banquet, but his gloves and hat had tho appearance of having come down to him as an heirloom from the funereal wardrobe of an undertaker of a century ago. In this sudden apparition there were combined ihe dash of Alfred Jingle, tho melancholy dignity of an Irving, and an obtrusive suggestion of a Robert Macairo mourning the loss of his snuff-box. •• Ha I’* As he uttered this not uncommon excla mation, Matthews hastily thrust the Dorcas medal lion into his pocket; Tom Morris stood bolt up right, Jerome Eddy dropped his cigar, and Charley Collins braced up with nervous expectancy behind tho counter. ♦‘Ha! Home again. Howaro you Tom—how's Dorcas—John—why, hello, Eddy—by Jove, Charley, you’re looking as bsigbft as a circus poster—how’s things anyway ?” The Tableau of Transients closed in around the roan in tho gray ulster as he uttered his greeting and $o adroitly pulled off hie «lovps tb’t nn* th* ehafffest could dekcteS their dilapidation and age, Evidently ha was about to do somethings A * cl he did. He cheerily added as the fitting appendix (o his query in reference to tho condition of things, the familiar and always welcome chestnut, «* Its a long limo between drinks— LET’S HAVE SOMETHING—Eft Seven of tho members of the Criterion tableau ranged themselves at the counter in the usual stand Mt ease variety of attitude indicative of each one’s dead letter perfect knowledge of the business of the drinking act at somebody else’s expense. For this act very few rehearsals are necessary. Collins, with the alacrity, ease and grace, acquired by long experience, placed a glass fn front of each man. The glasses glistened no brighter eyes. The man in the gray ulster smiled as his eyes ten derly rested upon a knot mark in the counter im mediately in front of-Collins. “ You’ve forgotten—one more glass Charley—one for yourself you know.” The glass came up from under tho counter with lightning rapidity. A flash of mental calculation told Charley that with this addition to the sum total for this round of drinks—he would be—at the average rate—one dollar and thirty-five cents the winner. Another flash cheered him with the expectancy that.with Studley, perhaps Stetson and probably Eddy keeping up their end of the rouse his day’s business would be glorified by an increase of Jour orfiv dollars of solid cash. The third flash was a blessing upon THE MAN IN THE GRAY ULSTER. So Collins stood waiting for the order. There was ’ta beer drinker nor a Sarsaparilla dyspeptic in th.‘. crowd. “Now gentlemen nominate your poison,” mildly suggested Collins. The man in the gray ulster thrust his right h and into the side pocket of the long storm-beaten coat; his left hand rested upon the counter, grasping his dilapidated gloves. ••Now, gentlomon—old fels—it’s good to meet once more upen one’s native shore, and I’m the only survivor washed up, high and dry and safe, from tho wreck of our 'Star Combination.’ I tell you, we had a rcugh voyage. The Presidential cyclone struck us at Kalamazoo, and swept away our baggago; thon tho hurricane of strikes came and blew us out of cur reckoning, and a cold wave carried off our manager and treasurer between two days, and at last wo wont to pieces.” Collins fingered his empty glass impatiently, and there was something of an exhaustive drought visible in tho facial expression of the listeners as they gave visual pantomimic hints in their alternate glancos from tho speaker to their as yet untouched glaspes. “New, then,” began Collins. “Oh, beg pardon,” continued tho occupant of the gray ulster. “Yes, I see. As I was saying, I got away from the wreck; caught on with a property watch, warranted to go as long as anybody carried it; stuck a gawk with it nine miles west of Tiffin, Ohio; met him in the only ‘tavern’ in the place; he was a rural sport; asked me ff I knew poker; I said yes; wo sat down in the bar-room for a little game; told him I had no small bills—nothing but century cases—but put up my watch, oroide chain and all fine gold-watch to equal twenty dne-dollar chips— fi.ve-dollar raise tho limit—one dollar the ante— didn’t let him examine the super too closely, you know. Well, ho put up his dollars, and, not to en ter into details, when wo quit, after five hours’ close attention to tho game and a bottle of whisky, I had cleaned out tho sportive gawk, and had in my pocket one hundred cases. I saw venge ance in his eye.’ I said: ‘Wait a minute; be back in two minutes.’ Went ont of the back door; made a straight cut for the railroad station; just in timo to board a Cleveland train, and Eastward, the star of escape, led the way, and here I am. The play’s the thing wherein we’ll catdJ&he boodlo of the gawks. ’ “ Come, come,” began Collins. “It’s a long time between drinks,” gasped Tom Morris. “Nover knew such a wait between acts,” mur mured Mathews. “Except when there was a heavy set of Injunc tion,” put in Studley, putting up his eye-glasses* The man in tho gray ulster looked at his ex pectant friends and then at tho row of empty glasses. “ Great Scotthe exclaimed ; “now see here, it’s too bad. Well, I’ll make it up for you. You don’t suppose I’m going to let you off with one round, do you ? You know me better than that, don’t yoU, Gaylor? You remember the old time, don’t you— years ago when we used to meet down there ?’ — “ Oh Lord ! what have I done ?” groaned Gaylor drooping Lis leonine head. “ Begorra ! I’ll collapse soon,” sighed Roche. “Charley,” continued the owner of the gray ulster, “you drink whisky—and—lets all—-just for a lark—tackle whisky. It goes—does it ? All right. Hold on a minute, Charley.” Charley paused in the act of handing down the bottlo of whisky which his hand had grasped. “ Hold on, Charley,” and here the Man in tho gray ulster drew the right hand out of the pocket, and in its grasp was A QUART FLASK from which he dexterously twisted the cork. “There, boys, try that whisky. It’ll make your hair curl. Don’t be afraid of it—its as free as air— help yourselves.” Collins’s face blanched—bleached white. “I say,” he gasped, “I”— Mathews grabbed the bottle recklessly; then Morris, then Gaylor, and every man of the crowd had his boozo poured out and swallowed before Collins had uttered the three words. The gray ulstered man of destiny smiled. “Drink hearty, boys ; its the clear juice. Charley, what’s the matter—try it—eh? Now then, one more round ” — Collins was himself again. He cast off the seductive suavity of the landlord and assumed the wrathful dignity of an insulted man. And he made the air blue, and the glasses blister with about the choicest lot of profanity ever heard outside of the composition-room of a morn ing paper. “ What in blankety-blank do you mean. Who in are you, anyhow ? What do you take me for coming in here and bringing the crowd up to the bar—talking them into a paralysis of thirst and— and—dammit—fetching out your own bottle to treat ’em with. Where in blankety-blank do I get in ? What do I run this place for, anyhow ?” “Sir,” said the man in the gray ulster, with a calmness which was as exasperating as wormwood and gall, “ I came in here to treat my friends. Not being able to pay for even a single drink at-retail rates without depriving myself of a square meal, I carry my own bottle—twenty-five cents a quart. Your drink, which you didn’t take, ought to be an equivalent for tho use of the glasses and ” Collins, like Gloster, when King Henry had reached the lines—“ And if the rest bo true I’ve heard, thou earnest”—could hear no more. He did not cry out, “Die, prophet, in the midst of thy speech,” but he made A SUDDEN PLUNGE under the counter; he bobbed up suddenly—not serenely, but freshly; there was a sudden hish—and splash, as of the bursting of a flat-house water-pipe, and the man in the gray ulster was deluged with a shower-bath of seltzer water. ♦ “Get out, you infernal ” roared Charley. He did get out, and as the green doors closed on his gray ulster, his parting words floated in ; “ It’s a good snap—if it works.” •' The next bum fake that brings his own bottle in here ’ll be murdered,” puffed Charley. “Who in is he, anyhow ?” “I guess it’s a joke, Charley,” soothingly sug gested Studley. “ Well, it’s all circus—let’s have some out of your bottle this time, as a CQftgoler.” Once again the crowd ranged in file, Charley smiled again. I?b a joke, CHariey. 7 0U to know who put it up on you ?” **' * “A bottle of wine for the crowd.’* “ It’s a go. Bring out your Mumm, dry, 1 the job up. That ulster lad is my dresser and in junction bouncer. 1 posted him in this raid, and he did the biz up to the handle—and so did you with the seltzer bottle,” said Studley. Charley put out the wine. “Nowthen,” said Studley, leaning over toward Charley with a serious and half apologetic expres sion of face—“ Charley, I’ll have to owe you for the round of drinks till I come again.” “Well, I’m d d. What next?” moaned Col- lins. “ Won’t you take the entire shop ?” And half an hour later Studley capped the climax by throwing upon the counter a thonsand-dollar greenback. “Take the drinks out of that, Chirley.” “ Godelmitey, is there that much money in the universe?” “That's the regular weekly salary Stetson pays me—as long aslallowjhim to injunct me—as a standing advertisement for his ‘Monte Cristo.’ I divy up with Dittenhoeffer, too, you know. It’s a big thing, my boy.” Charley Collins is not likely to forget Studley’s dresser. It was a good scheme, and it worked. • —■... ■ Stopped to I£eai' a Story. AN ANECDOTE OF THE BEV. HOW LAND HILL. Two strangers passing Rowland Hill’s church one day entered, walked up the aisle, and, finding no seat, stood for a while, and listened to the sermon. Presently they turned to walk out. Before they reached the door the preacher said: “ But I will tell you a story.” This, of course, arrested the strangers, and they paused, turned again, and listened. “ Once there was a man,” said the preacher, “ who , said that if he bad all the axes in the world made into one great ax, and all the trees in the world made into one tree, and he could wield the ax and cut down the tree, he would make it into one great whip to thrash those ungodly mon who turn their 1 backs on the gospel and stop to hear a story. i Served Him Right. —Jessie Lewis ’ keeps a little fancy store at No. 563 First avenue. > Because she is an unprotected woman, loafers get in » front of her door and annoy her. She wont out to > remonstrate, and Luke Riley hit her with his fist twice, knocked her down, and when she cried mur- l der, he ran. She knew him well, as he lived close i by, and she had often seen him. Her daughter was > also assaulted when she camo to save her mother. ) Tho young fellow claimed that it was a ease of I mistaken identity, but he did not prove it. The Court sentenced him to the Penitentiary for a year. JANUARY 11, 1885. A FRATERML AFFAIR. The Events that Occurred to the Delpuit Brothers. Coi’rect Robert and Scapegrace Daniel. INFLUENCE OF A PRETTY BRITISH BLONDE TREACHERY AND REVENGE. SPANISH ADRIANA’S KNIFE. When old Antoine Delpuit died in Paris, in 1827, he left his large estate to be equally divided be tween his two sons, Robert—then a man of thirty years of age—and Daniel, who still lacked five years of attaining his majority. Robert was also made tho guardian and principal executor in charge of his brother and his brother s interest in the estate. The elder brother was a serious, grave, saturnine sort of fellow, who professed to bo religious and who, so far as the world could see, lived a very cor rect and upright life. Ho was a notary, as his father had been before him. Daniel was a thought less, rockless young chap, entirely too fond of wine and women even before he reached the age of man hood. When his father died he indulged in his favorite excesses to a greater extent than ever be fore, aud it was with difficulty that Robert could keep his expenditures within the bounds of reason. The frequent discussions on Daniel’s prodigality made some dissensions between the two brothers, but they amounted to little. The elder was a man of strong will and over-awed his spendthrift brother by the solemn correctness of his life and manners, so that he easily MAINTAINED HIS SUPREMACY and retained Daniel’s confidence in his probity, good judgment and affection. Thus it was that even when Daniel reached his majority, Robert con tinued to manage his affairs, handle his money and exercise a sort of control over him, almost as much as in the days of his minority, and that without the junior even thinking of rebelling against the arrangement. This continued until, in 1852, when Daniel was twenty-five years of age, an event occurred that made a violent and eventually fatal change in the relations of the brothers. The year before this, Florence Aktell, an English girl, went over to Paris. She was not a “ good girl ” and did not pretend to be one, but she was very jolly, very pretty, very dainty and possessed to the fullest extent that dangerous but charming fem inine accomplishment of either earnestly and hon estly being deeply in love with every good-looking, able-bodied young fellow she met, or at least of pretending so to be, to each in succession, so nat urally that each believed himself “the only man she ever loved.” In the summer of 1851 Daniel Delpuit began to feel confident that he only was beloved by her. By early autumn he had attained that still more dan gerous conviction, that she was the only woman he ever had loved or could love. From that time he could not do enough to demon strate his affection. He furnished a house for her, gave her costly dnesses and jewels, was indeed ruin ing himself for her when the good idea occurred to Robert of endeavoring to interpose to stop the downward course to ruin. It was with serious doubt of the result that he did so, for he had never had to encounter any such violent passion in Dan iel’s previously erratic career of amours as that now controlling him. A DESPERATE NECESSITY, existed however, known to Robert alone at that time. He had been using Daniel’s share of the estate as his own. Having been so long accus tomed to handling it without ever being called to an account, he had come to regard it as really his own. Not only had he suffered severe losses in specula tions on the Bourse, but he had secret vices, and by no means inexpensive ones, that K no one in the society he customarily moved in would have sus pected of such an eminently proper and conspicu ously good man. He viewed with alarm the extraordinary and ever increasing demands made upon him for money by Daniel. True, the money was really Daniel’s, but it was very inconvenient and disagreeable to give it up and he feared that any day his inability to meet some excessive requirement might force upon him the catastrophe of having to render an account of his stewardship. So it was that Robert Delpuht went to Florence Aktell, Daniel’s mistress, with the purpose of offering her a round sum that he deemed would be of sufficient magnitude to buy her aban- , donment of his brother and her return to England. When he saw her, he changed his purpose in one very material point. He resolved still to break off the connection between her and his brother, but he would keep her for Tj’uly "Tiftssl” WAS a mmiSation, even for the sternest anchorite, and Robert Delpuit was by no means an anchorite. He was secretly a very licentious man. His victims wore ordinarily poor girls, whom he allured to their ruin by treach erous promises of affectionate protection and even of marriage, ana whom he heartlessly cast as soon as he wearied of them, indiffetefct to the life of shame to which he doomed them. One exception to that rule was a Spanish girl named Adriana Cordalias, who had borne him [a child and who maintained her hold upon him sim ply through his well-grounded fear that she was very likely to drive a knife into him if he ever gave her what she might choose to consider sufficient cause for so doing. But he forgot all about Adriana when face to face with Flossy’s blonde, bewitching beauty. She re ceived him graciously, listened to him encourag ingly, resisted his approaches gently—just enough to incite him to more fitrious desire—and gave him finally a conditional acceptance of his proffers. The fact was that Flossy was as cold-bloodedly merce nary as she was pretty, and had already conceived the idea that Daniel was a pretty well squeezed orange. In the very nick of time, his brother, the chief of the Delpuit Exchequer, presented himself. He could not be said to have coma “ TO FILL A LONG FELT WANT ” —as the prospective newspapers say—but he was just as welcome as if he had. Within three days Flossy had secretly sold out the furniture of the house in which her establishment had been set up by Daniel, and had disappeared, leaving no trace. In another and distant part of Paris, Robert had established her, in better style than she had before enjoyed, and was squandering both his own money and Daniel’s upon her even more recklessly than the younger brother would. It was a fortnight before Daniel found out what had become of his faithless love. When he did, his amazement at learning of his brother’s treachery to him was mingled with rage at the cold-blooded hypocrisy with which Robert had listened to his lamentations over Flossy’s loss, and had even con doled with him, while still warm from her arms. Having fully satisfied himself as to the facts in the case he went to his brother and vehemently de nounced him. “Were you not my brother,” he said, “I would kill you. As the tio of blood forbids my doing that, your life is safe; but I warn you that I will well avenge myself. I know you now as you are—a licentious and, I do not doubt, a thievish hypocrite. All the time that you were lecturing me about mo rality and a decent life, you wore A WORSE LIBERTINE than I was. First, you shall give up to me my share of our father’s estate, which * will no longer trust in your keeping. Then I shall have some other matters to claim your serious attention.” Daniel found, to his great disgust, that he eonld not force his brother to that speedy accounting that ju his impetuous way ho fancied would have to be Fearless and Independent. rendered in a few hours. Cunning Robert found ways to invoke in his behalf tho delays of the law, with which ho was well acquainted, and Daniol learned with astonishment from his lawyer, that months would probably elapso before ho could got a settlement. His vongoanco would not wait that long, so he slightly changed his programme. Already ho had found where Flossy was established and had com municated with Adriana Cordalias, who was ne glected by Robert since his acquisition of the Brit ish charmer, and who, without knowing the cause of his coldness to her, was suspicious and chafing with jealous fury. To her went Daniel with the full story of Robert and Flossy, which ho colored, as Britons are wont to say, “ to the queen’s tasto.” She seemed so calm that he feared she would do nothing but submit in silence, and when, with merely languid interest, apparently, sho asked where Flossy lived, he told her, with a feeling that the in formation was altogether thrown away. Little he knew her. Under that placid exterior was raging A HELL OF DESPERATE RAGE. “Would she go and see Flossy and satisfy her self?” he asked. “ Yes.” “When ?” “That same evening, probably.” Possibly she might, he thought, and then again perhaps, sho might not. At all events it would do no harm to his pretty projects to inject another certain element of disturbance into the interview, if it took place, or to insure another probably pro ductive interview for the discomfiture of his hypo critical brother, if Adriana failed to appear. The person upon whom his mind was fixed in that reflection was Robert’s wife, a plain, home keeping, submissive little woman, who was habitu ally ill-treated by him, and who, so far as the world saw of her, entered as little into his life, as she thus far has into this story. Daniel very mu-ch doubted if “tho crushed worm would turn,” even under extremest provocation, and rather gloomily feared that his plans for re venge were likely to prove abortive. Had he known women better, he would have been more prepared to appreciate the magniiude of the storm he had raised, and more apprehensive of its serious conse quences. At nine o’clock that evening, Adriana forced her way past the servant who opened the door of Flos sy’s apartments, and abruptly that young woman’s private boudoir. Flossy, in a fascinating deshabille, sprang up, with a startled exclamation, from the knee of a man who, in his shirt sleeves and slippers, as if thoroughly at home, was seated in an easy chair before an open fire. For a few moments the intruder was silent; then began pouring forth A TORRENT OF INVECTIVE upon tho man who had deceived and betrayed her. Flossy appealed to him to protect her from the strango woman’s attack, for sho saw with instinct ive dread a threatening glitter in the basilisk-like black eyes of Adriana, who was slowly advancing into the room, and nearing her. The man in his shirt sleeves, who was Robert Delpuit, stepped for ward, and laid his hand upon the Spanish woman's shoulder to expel her. “You need not fear me,” said Adriana to her rival. “I have nothing against you. You never promised me anything; never broke faith with me. You were simply pursuing your trade. I only de spise you. But as for you, traitor,” turning to Robert, “ I have an account to settle with you. You swore to marry me: and, believing you, I became the mother of your child. You would have deserted me long ago, if you had not been a coward. Do you think I have not read you well, and known you for a long time ? At last you desert me for a mercenary prostitute, neglect to provide even for your child, and your punishment comes upon you—thus 1” With a movement quick as a flash of light, her hand darted from beneath her shawl and crossed before his face. He uttered a hoarse cry of AGONY AND HORROR, as, releasing his hold upon her, he tottered back ward, blind, and with a cataract of blood pouring down over his lace and front. With one vigorous slash of a keen knife, she had split open both his eye-balls, and made a hideous gash across the bridge of his nose. “It serves him rightly,” exclaimed an agitated voice behind Adriana, who, turning, saw behind her, in the curtains covering the doorway, a little pale woman, dressed in black. “ Who are you ? ’ she demanded. “ I am his wife,” answered the woman. That voice broke upon his ear even through his in tense pain and loud lamentations. Its tone revealed to him that the end of her endurance had come, and that all the fair, outward seeming of morality and pioty, that he iiad so carefully built up for years, was gone, along with his sight, his wealth, his mistresses, and all that He held dear, in both his private aud public lives. He fell unconscious upon the floor, where he was left, with contemptuous indifference, by both Adri ana and his wife. Flossy, too, quickly made her escape, in unreasoning fear and dread of other awful surprises, aud, but for the kind attention of a servant, who ran for a doctor, he might have bled to death where he lay. His sight was irretrievably lost. His wife easily obtained a judicial separation from him, and, under the influence of the exposure of his real character that was made in her suit for that separation, the civil courts, with unusual celerity, adjudged in Daniel’s favor his suit for a settlement of the estate. Blind, beggared, and 'lone, Robert did the most decent thing of his whole career—he hanged him self. PLU'KGWfTBiisnKE. A Father’s Plot to Secure a Wealthy Son-in-Law. A FAMILY AFFLICTED WITH BIGAMY. Some Very Clever Detective Work which Restored a Missing Son. .. prg w . The writer finds in his noto-toook tho subjoined story as related to him byjthe Detective, from whose diary many narratives already published in these columns have been taken : “The Rev. Dr. Gleig was the son of a man of good family, but poor. Dr. Gleig went into the church and had to content himself with a small living. He married an amiable but portionless girl and the re sult of the marriage was one son. “ About a year before the beginning of this nar rative, Dr. Gleig had been smitten with paralysis, two strokes in succession depriving him of the use of his limbs and leaving him an almost helpless im becile. The physicians were at first in hopes of his restoration, provided he could be tided over a year or two without another attack; but at the expira tion of nine months an unfavorable change occurred and it was evident he might bo taken off suddenly at any time. “ When Dr. Gleig married he was about the tenth remove from the heirship to a large estate. One by one the nearer Loirs died off’. The sickness of Dr. Gleig had diverted his family’s thoughts from all other subjects aud they were therefore somewhat - astonished when they were notified that there was but one person between him and a vast property, and that one an old man of seveuty-nine. A DISAPPEARANCE. “ George, the Doctor's son, was at Oxford, where he had only recently matriculated, being in his nineteenth year. On February 25, 1863, he disap peared, leaving behind him no clew. His mother used every means to discover the whereabouts of the boy, without, however, giving the ma th er pub licity. Three weeks later, Dr. Gleig came into pos session of tho estate worth £20,000 sterling a year, with a fine mansion in Yorkshire and another in Leicestershire. From that time his wife spent large sums of money to find ont their missing son. In June sho employed me, through a London attorney, to undertake the task and I at once went to work. “The first thing I did was to go to Oxford aud make among bis assoeites there. They knew positively nothing and referred me to tho servant who had waited upon the young man. I found him living in a comfortable dwelling, and answering to the name of Linker. Ho bad a shy way with him and did not seem to enjoy my ques tioning him. A SPECIAL MAN. ‘“To tell you the truth, sir,’ he said, ‘I was very sick at the time Mr. Gleig disappeared, and had been r or over a month, so that I was relieved from duty and another man was put in my place. That is to say, another man did bis own work and part of mine, too, but as Mr. Gleig was very particular, I employed a special man to attend to him.’ “ ‘ Who was he ?’ 1 asked, thinking it very strange at the outset that George Gleig, whose father had had to scrape and hoard to send him to the Univer sity and who was described by all as a youth of such modest and careful ways, should have gone to the expense of another servant—for of course he would have to pay him. “ • His name,’ said Binker. ‘ I forget. Tie was rec ommended by a particular friend of mine, and that was all I knew of him.’ “ • Who was the friend who recommended him ?’ I inquired; ‘perhaps he might know more about the man.’ “ • Ah,’ said Binker, 'mv friend went to London, where he got a situation about the docks.’ A SLIGHT DIFFERENCE. “•What sort of a looking man was this person who waited on Mr. Gleig ?” I asked. “ ■ He was short and thin, I believe,’ replied Bink er, ‘and about twenty or thirty years ot age, with red hair and a clean shaven face, and spoko like a foreigner.’ “I w’ent back to the college and saw one of George’s most intimate associates. The description he gave of Binker's substitute was the very reverse of that furnished by Binker. The man, said the student, was over fifty, tall and stout, with black hair and a full black beard, and spoke excellent En glish. “I went to Binker’s once more and asked him when he resumed his duties aftex* his sickness. Singularly enough it was the very day alter George Gleig had disappeared—February 26. ‘“Did you seo your substitute after your re turn ?’ “ ‘No, I did not,’ was tho answer. “'And you have never seen him since or heard of him ?’ I asked. “ ' I have not,’ ho answered. A LETTER. “Farther inquiry showed that Georgo Gleig and Binker’s substitute disappeared from public gaze at the same time. After some trouble I found the place where the substitute had lodged, and discov ered that he passed under tho name of Brown. A crown piece put mo on pleasant terms with the old lady who kept the house. She said that all tho time Brown stayed there with his daughter, Binker was a frequent visitor, sometimes staying late into the night. She allowed mo to see the room occupied by Brown, and you may depend upon it I rummaged for some fragment that might help me to a clew. But I didn’t find any. On leaving tho house, how ever, I found the old lady with a letter in her hand. “ ‘This,’ said she, ‘camo for Mr. Brown the very day after he left.’ “I examined the envelope. It was in a lady’s hand, and bore the Shrewsbury post mark. I should have liked to seethe inside, but that couldn’t be, and so I gave it back to the old lady, after a very careful scrutiny. I went to my hotel and sot to work to reproduce that envelope and all it con tained. With a little ingenuity, I made an envelope that would pass muster. Thon I manufactured an inside, and the same evening called again on the old lady. I asked her to allow me to examine the letter once more. She did so, and tho letter I re turned to her was the counterfeit. When I reached my hotel, I slit the envelope, and drew forth the paper it contained. It was a blank ! I scrutinized it closely, and finally held it up to tho light. The riddle was solved. These words were distinctly vis ible: “‘ We are very anxious about you. Why don’t you write ? Jane.’ “ This told me nothing, but the envelope showed me that the letter came from Shrewsbury. Thither I went—of course I was not such a fool as to be lieve that Mr. Brown at Oxford would be Mr. Brown at Shrewsbury, but I was in hopes that something might turn up at tho latter place to throw light upon the mystery, I was attempting to solve. The day after my arrival, I saw a gentleman enter a bank whom I determined to examine a little more closely. On his returning to tho street, I scrutin ized hifti, and thought ho “ANSWERED BROWN’S DESCRIPTION. “I ascertained that his name was Brignail,and that he resided in the suburbs. I found further that he was formerly a strolling dentist, going from one town to another practicing his profession, and that while at Shrewsbury he had had for a patient a widow, who resided with her sen and two daughters in the outskirts of the town, where her husband had left her an annuity oi six hundred pounds a year. He had married the widow and resided there ever since. I laid a little plot. I wrote a note to Mr. Brignall and signed it Binker, telling him that business of the utmost importance to him had brought me to Shrewsbury, and that he must meet Binker at the Red Cross Inn at seven o’clock that evening. True to the minute, Mr. Briguall appear ed, and seemed greatly perturbed when no Binker was forthcoming. After making many inquiries, and waiting for over two hours, he went away. “ Naturally after he was gone, the townspeople in the bar began to talk about Mr. Brignail. “ ‘lt was a lucky thing for him when he married the widow Gleig,’ some one said: “ I started and unwittingly exclaimed, ’ the widow Gleig !’ Then it was explained, and I soon learned that Mrs. Brignall was the widow of the younger brother of the Rev. Dr. Gleig. Here was “A MOST UNEXPECTED DISCOVERY, and, be sure, I made the most of it. On Dr. Gleig’s death, which might occur at any moment, his son, George, would fall heir to the property, and if George was removed, the next heir would be the son of Mr. Bignail’s wife! “ I felt now that I was on the right track. I went to Leicestershire, whither I heard Dr. Gleig and his wife had removed, and saw Mrs. Gleig. Had she a photograph of George ? Unfortunately she had not. Could she describe him accurately ? She thought she could, but sadly blundered over it. Was he like her or Dr. Gleig ? Like her? Yes; she had a photo graph of herself taken, just before her marriage, to which George bore a striking resemblance. I got the likeness, went to Leicester, and hal a dozen copies made. I took with me to Dr. Gleig’s resi dence, near Sileby, the best portrait painter I could find in Leicester. He cut out the face of the photo graph, and pasted it on card-board. Then he drew and painted the bust of a young man to match the head, using a coat of George’s to go by; next, follow ing Mrs. Gleig’s description, ho added the hair as George was accustomed to wear his, and painted it a light brown; a touch here and there, and Mrs. Gleig declared that it was the image of her son. Domes tics recognized it instantly, and when shown to Dr. Gleig, his dim eye brightened, and he made a pain ful effort to clutch it. There was no doubt iu my mind that I had got “ A GOOD LIKENESS OF THE MISSING YOUTH. “Half a dozen likenesses were prepared in the same way, and I departed. I went straight to Shrewsbury, to find that Mr. Bignail had left by train that very morning for London. He was throe hours ahead of me. I rushod to the telegraph office, and sent this message to my assistant: “'Look out for a man; 6 feet; stout: black hair; full black beard; well-dressed, with a prominent nose. Follow, and watch. He will reach London & N. W. Depot by train due at 3:48. 1 will be on by 6:08. Send word so that I may find you.’ “I had an hour or so to spare, and so I went to Mr. Bignail’s residence, and asked to see him. He was not at home. Mrs. Bignail wanted to know my business, and I said it was private. She grew fld getty, and put many clever questions, but all to no purpose. Then she said she didn’t expect Mr. Sig nal! home for a week. I bade her good-day, and went to the depot. The train was on time, and I reached the Rondon depot at the hour specified. Sere a messenger Awaited me with a note. Mr. Bignall had gone to No. — Chapel street, Islington, and my assistant was on the watch. At that num ber I ascertained lived a Mr. Brown and his wife and daughter. The daughter had recently got mar ried and gone away, said the grocer. Had he seen the bridegroom? 0, yes; wag yery youogj good-looking fellow. Anything nxe ih's fcorlrait? That was the man, without a question ? What like a man was Mr. Brown ? Tall, stout, dark hair and beard, and so forth. Was he much away from home ? A great deal, and he had just returned that afternoon, after a long absence. THE LITTLE PLOT. “ Thon Mr. Bignall was Mr. Brown iu reality, and had two wives, and he had married tho heir to a handsome estate to his daughter ! That was the little plot. “I called on Mr. Brown, and saw Mr. Bignall. His son-in-law, I said, requested me, as I was com ing to town, to hand Mrs. Brown that likeness of him. Mrs. Brown was delighted. Mr. Brown smiled all over, and offered me gin. I was going back that evening—had they anything to send ? Yes. certainly, if I would be so kind. A parcel was put up and handed to me. “ • Suppose, now,’ I said, ‘ I was to forget this on the train. It has no address, and would be thrown aside or appropriated.’ “ ‘That is so,’ said Mr. Brown, and he wrote an address upon it in a bold hand : “ • Mrs. Gleig, “ ‘No. 23 St. George’s Terrace, “ ‘ Gravesend.’ “I bade them good-by, and was on my way to Gravesend in two minutes. I caught the 7:30 train at London Bridge, and at 8:15 was standing at the door of No. 23 St. George’s Terrace. FOUND. The next minute I was in the presence of George Gleig. Fortunately his wife was not present. “‘Mr. Gleig,’l said, feeling justified in lying, ‘ your father is dead, and your presence at home is required immediately.’ “ The young feilow burst into tears and upbraided himself bitterly for not being at his father’s bedside in the last moments. I urged him to control him self and come away with me at once. “‘But my wife,’he said; ‘I must take my wife with me.’ “‘You must not,’l said: ‘/know you are mar ried, but your mother does not, and iu hex* present condition it would be unkind to inflict upon her more pain than you have already done by your un explained disappearance.’ “ ‘ 1 cannot leave her here to starve,’ he said. “•I have made ample provision for that,’l said; •you can leave with her a couple of hundred pounds which I will give to you.* •“But she is out, and won’t return before mid night,’ he said, almost peevishly. ••• Write a note and enclose tho money. Here is paper. Now sit down aud I’ll tell you what to say.’ “He sat down and wrote from my dictation. The notes were enclosed and the letter sealed and deliv ered to the landlady. Then we started for the depot and reached London in time to catch the express train north. Wo stayed in Leicester till the morn ing and then went over to Sileby. “I can’t describe the meeting between mother and son. He was somewhat surprised to find that his father was still alive, and still more gratified lo see that his father recognized him. THE SEQUEL. “Well! Can’t you guess the rest? Bignall or Brown was a bigamist, to begin with. After he mar ried Mrs. Gleig, bo learned all about the estate to which Dr. Gleig, her brother-in-law, was heir, and his condition toward the last. When he was gone George would inherit, and suppose before then he married Miss Brown?' Brown went to Oxford, put up the job with Binker, and once with George Gleig under his eye, be soon managed the rest. He brought his daughter, who was a dashing blonde, to Oxford, and took care that George should see her. The girl had learned her lex Hon and knew what a big fish she might hook. She led the youth on until at last she yielded and made him her abject OFFICE, M 11 FRANKFORT ST. elave. Thon in came the outraged father, weeping and forgiving, and was about to tear away his daughter and send her to an institution. She wept and clung to George, and George swore he would never leave her, and then it was proposed ho should marry her. They took the midnight train for Lon don, disguised, and next day the father took care to see his daughter safely married. That done, ho dispatched the new couple to his sister,'s at Grave send, to await developments. “ What became of George’s wife ? Well, it so happened that she had another husband with a prior claim to George’s. In hunting up testimony against Bignail for bigamy, I found it ran in the family. We let the girl go, but the father was con victed at the old Bailey and went into retirement for seven years/’ HIGH ART CHEAP. The Pictorial Craze which has Possessed our Daily Press. NEWS AT A DISCOUNT. How a Bad Artist is Made to Replace a Wood Reporter. THE ARTISTIC PORTRAIT PIRATE There was a time when a daily newspaper’s staff consisted of editors and reporters. Nowadays, how ever, the artist is another essential to its effective ness. That is to say, what is by courtesy called an artist, to judge him by his works the mini mum of art required of him. As long as he can produce certain crude marks upon paper to desig nate certain facts with sufficient clearness not to completely stupefy the average readers intelligence, his work is considered done. In effect, the draw ings which nowadays embellish the columns of the daily press, might be direct translations from a schoolboy’s slate. The New York daily which indulges most exten sively in the pictorial feature employs two artists, whose united salaries are close upon SIOO a week, and its bill for reproducing their drawings is more than that sum. Another paper employs two men, who between them receive SSO a week, and pays $75 for engraving. An artist imported from Europe for an evening paper receives $l5O a week. This, with the cost of reproducing his pictures, makes the ar tistic expense to the paper about s2uo weekly. The drawings for these papers are made with the pen, on smooth cardboard. A special ink, of the glossiest blackness, is used, so that every line is clean and perfectly clear. The reproductions are made by photo-engraving, and one photo-engraving company, which uses the electric light, and is therefore independent of tile weather, can turn out a cut, by night or day, within four hours. Ordina rily it takes twenty-four hours of clear weather to prepare a cut, and in dark or cloudy weather*.twice or three times as long. But with true journalistic enterprise the newspapers defy the elements. One newspaper cartoon which was widely distributed during the campaign, and which contained some fifty portraits, was drawa between three o'clock in the afternoon and seven in the evening, photo en graved by midnight, and set before the public next morning. Two mon worked at if—one drawing the heads, which he passed over as he finished them, to the other, who pasted them on a large cardboard on which the design was sketched in pencil, and put the figures in. It is scarcely necessary to add, after explaining how it was made, that this alleged pic ture was MOST ATROCIOUSLY EXECUTED, A short time ago oue of these journalistic Michael Angelos produced nineteen large portrait cuts in a single day, and from ten to fifteen is a common number with him. The quality of work produced in such haste can be as readily imagined as de scribed. The first work of the daily paper artist was por trait work. His pencil was used to give more or less vivid representations of such heroes of the hour as the events of the day brought forward. He sketched the murderer in the Tombs and the swin dler in the prisoner’s dock. But the new departure in journalism proved to possess much the same characteristics as an indulgence in opium or any other vice. The appetite grew with its gratifica tion, and rivalry created the necessity for a variety of novelties. Subjects could no longer be taken from the news of the day, but had to be in vented. The artist was sent sketching in the slums just as the reporter, when sensations are scarce, is dispatched to work up new ones on his own hook. Portraits, however, remain the pet material, and there is an especially heavy demand for them, their interest being most directly personal and attract ive. The contest among the papers for these, and the shifts they are put to to obtain them, are al most incredible. As every intelligent observer will have remarked, all manner of mon and women have been illustrated by the daily newspaper artist. Aldermen and art ists, fops and frauds, millionaires and mu-rderers, society beauties and scandal heroines, have con tributed to the pictorial hodge-podge. Some of these have gone into print quite willingly—so much so, indeed, that not a few have tendered the re porter, the editor or the publisher a handsome tes timonial of gratitude for the artistic publicity con ferred upon them. But there have been instances in which the pic tures were secured by trick and device, and which aroused a storm of indignation on the part of the parties thus SURREPTITIOULY MADE FAMOUS. The celebrated case of the Brooklyn beauties will be recalled by every reader of the Dispatch. The photographs of these ladies, all leaders in social life across the river, were stolen by some enterpris ing and unscrupulous reporter from the private al bum of a fashionable photographer in the City of Churches, and printed in a Now York daily with an accompaniment of the silliest kind of taffy para graphs. The affair created a hurricane, and it would probably have fared badly with the hero of this monumental episode of journalistic enterprise had his identity become known. But it did not, and tfie storm died away. Only a week later there was another uproar in our political society. The portrait of a millionaire banker’s son, who was going it very fast, and of his injured wife, herself a pink of opulent propriety, found their way into print. There were only two pictures of these persons known to be in existence, and these were in the family album. It was learn ed afterward that they had been taken out, carried to a photographer and copied, and then put back in their places, but by whom could not be definitely ascertained. Even this feat was cast in tne shade a few weeks later by the appearance in print of a number of our swell society you sig women who had enjoyed what they supposed to be a perfectly private garden party in the grounds of one of our monopolist kings up the Hudson, They had been captured by the process of instantaneous photography, the operator being concealed in a tree overlooking the grounds where the festivities occurred, with what is known as a detective camera under his arm. The sensation caused by this exploit was something terrific, and some of the victims threatened the terrors of the law upon the offending journal. But the law proba bly proved incapable of coping with this special species of turpitude, for, it was after all this prelimi nary bluster not'invoked, and the pictorial journal ist was left to go further AND SIN WORSE. 4 How far he is capable of going is shown in a case which rendered the holiday season pleasant for one of our pictorial dailies by forcing from it a heavy sum for a compromise in damages. A local swell had a serious difficulty with his wife, based on his predeliction for the society of other ladies in prefer ence to her own. This difficulty resulted in a free fight, which broke up their housekeeping and sent the lady in search of a divorce. The affair was kept out of the courts, as is cus tomary in such aristocratic cases, but the referee’s operations became whispered about, and the inevi table artist turned up in search of portraits. He got that of the festive husband all right, and the wife’s as well. Then an evil spirit impelled him to make a sketch of a lady who sat with the defendant, and who, it was whispered, was none other than the fair and frail- object of the injured wife’s jealousy. The three sketches were printed next day, and before night the editorial room was invaded by one of the foremost lawyers in New York. Then the editor learned, to his horror, that the lady credited with being the bold, bad man’s brazen paramour, was the wife of his legal visitor, who had accom panied her husband, who was employed in the case, out of curiosity to hear the evidence. Mrs. X. enjoyed a splendid Christmas present from the offending journal—if rumor is to be credited— no less than $2,500, and that journal never prints a lady’s portrait now without an affidavit, duly at tested to before a notary public, as to its genuine ness. The of the average reporter is more than discounted by the artist. There are a few things the reporter respects, even in search of news. The artist respects none, however. One of our embellishers of the daily press now sports an atro cious black eye, which he picked up quite naturally in the.pursuit of duty. Ho had gone in search of a photograph of a young man of the upper crust who had figured in a club fracas, and gone directly to that person to demand it. The latter said : “ I haven’t got a photograph, and if I had I cer tainly would not give it to you.” "Oh, very well,” was tne cool reply, “I can sketch you.” And he began to scribble in his sketch book. He was promptly knocked down and kicked out; but the picture appeared in print and he was happy, especially as it gave his chastiser a face that would have made Judas Iscariot ashamed of himself. It may be remarked in conclusion that the mania for art has not improved the New York press as a standard of news. The most insignificant and con temptible papers in the city are those which rely on their wretched cuts to attract the public. The bad artist has been made to replace the good re porter, and the resuit has not been beneficial to metropeli tan jo u rnalism. PRICE FIVE CENTS. AN EVENING TIME. . One talks to us at evening time. Of all the quaint old ways, And all the things that used to be Once iu her girlhood days. She says the lads were twice as true. The maids more shy and sweet, And not afraid of work or play Were those she used to meet. A simpler life contented them. And simpler songs were sung, And one would think ’twas Edcn«tirnty Long since, when she was young. She talks to us at evening time Of how her lover came To woo her first; how shy she was To call him by his name. She says his eyes were bright as start. His hair was like the crow— I saw him once—his eyes were dim. His hair was white as snow; She tells us with a touch of pride. He on her accents hung, And ne’er was lad so true as he, Long since, when she was young. She talks to us at evening time, And tells us that we know How dear we are, but still she feels ’Tie nearly time to go. We stoop to touch her silvery hair, Or softly kiss her brow; a They did not love her more, long since, Than we all love her now; But she would fold her weary hands. And go to rest among Tho silent crowd of those she know Long since, when she was young. (Onsfmas Storg. IN LUCrirUST. BY WALTER BESANT. CHAPTER XII. IS THIS HIS PHOTOGRAPH? The best way to got a talk with his cousin waH to dine with her. Arnold therefore went to Chester Square next day with the photograph in his pocket. It was half an hour before dinner when he arrived, and Clara was alone. “My dear,” she cried with enthusiasm, “I am charmed—l am delighted—with Iris.” “I am glad,” said Arnold mendaciously. “I am delighted with her—in every way. She is more and better than I could have expected far more. A few Americanisms of course ” “No doubt,” said Arnold. “ WJien I saw her I thought they rather resembled Anglicisms. But you have had opportunities of judging. You have in your own possession,” he contin ued, “ have you not, all the papers which estab lish her identity ?” “ Oh, yes ! they are all locked up in my strong box. I shall be very careful of them. Though, of course, there is no one who has to bo satis fied except myself. And lam perfectly satis fied. But then I never had any doubt from the beginning, How could there be any doubt ?” “How, indeed?” “ Truth, honor, loyally and candor, as well as gentle descent, are written on that girl’s noble brow, Arnold, plain, so that all may read. It is truly wonderful,” she went on, “ how the old gentle blood shows itself, and will break out under the most unexpected conditions. In her face she is not much like her father; that is true; though sometimes I catch a momentary resem blance, which instantly disappears again. Her eyes are not in the least like his, nor lias she his manner, or carriage, or any of his little tricks and peculiarities—though, perhaps, I shall ob serve traces of some of them in time. But especially she resembles him in her voice. The tone, tho timbre, reminds me every moment of my poor Claude.” “I suppose,” said Arnold, “that one must in herit something, if it is only a voice, from one’s father. Have you said anything to her yet about money matters, and a settlement of her claims ?” “No, not yet. I did venture, last night, to approach the subject, but she would not hear ot it. So I dropped it. I call that true delicacy, Arnold-native, instinctive, hereditary delica cy.” “Have you given any more money to ths American gentleman who brought her home ?” “Iris made him take a hundred pounds against his will, to buy books with, for he is not rich. Poor fellow! It went much against the grain with him to take the money. But she made him take it. She said he wanted books and instruments, and insisted on bis having at least a hundred pounds. It was generous o' her. Yes; she is—l ain convinced—a truly gen erous girl, and as open-handed as the day. Now, would a common girl, a girl of no descent, have shown so much delicacy and generosity ?” “By the way, Clara, here is a photograph. Does it belong to you ? I—l picked it up.” He showed tho photograph which Lala Roy had given him. “ Oh, yes ! it is a likeness of Dr. Washington, Iris’s adopted brother and guardian. She must have dropped it. I should think it was taken a lew years back, but it is still a very good like ness. A handsome man, is he not ? He grows upon one rather. His parting words with Iris yesterday were very dignified and touching.” “ I will give it to her presently,” he replied, without further comment. There was, then, no doubt. The woman was an impostor, and tho man was tho thief, and the papers were the papers which had been stolen from the safe, and Iris Deseret was no other than his own Iris. But ho must not show tho least sign of suspicion. “What are you thinking about, Arnold?” asked Clara. “ Your face is as black as thun der. Yov are not sorry that Iris has returned, are you ?” “ I was thinking of my engagement, Clara.” ' “ Why, you are not tired of it already? An engaged man, Arnold, ought not to look co gloomy as that.” “I am not tired of it yet. But lam unhappy as regards some circumstances connected with it. Your disapproval, Clara, for one. My dear cousin, I owe so much to you, that I want to owe you more. Now, I have a proposition—a promise—to make to you. lam now so sure, so very sure and certain, that you will want mo to marry Miss Aglen—and no one else -when you once know her, that I will engage solemnly not to marry her unless you entirely approve, Let mo owe my wife to you, as well as every thing else.” “Arnold, you are notin earnest?” “ Quite in earnest.” “But I shall never approve. Never—never— i never 1 I could not bring myself, under any circumstances that I can conceive, to approve of such a connection.” “My dear cousin, I am, on the other hand, perlectly certain that you will approve. Why, if I were not quite certain do you think I should have made this promise ? But to return to your newly-found cousin. Tell me more about hw "