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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, March 22, 1885, Image 1

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PUBLISHED BY A. J. WILLIAMSON’S SONS.
**-*" *"'*'*'* 9 «jr» *w*w *w> *» »■»
vol.-,. XL.—NO. 23.
Entered a j yj 0 p OS f office at New York,
® . Y., as Second Class Hatter.
ih new YorkHnspatch,
•PUBLISHED AT
*' <O. 11 FRANKFORT STREET.
The NEW YORK DISPATCH is«a journal of light, agree
able and sparkling Literature and News. One page is de
moted to Masonic Matters, and careful attention is given
io Music and the Drama.
The Dispatch is sold by all News Agents of the city and
Juburbs, at FIVE CENTS A COPY.
TERMS FOR MAIL SUBSCRIBERS!
SINGLE SUBSCRIPTIONS $2 50 a year
FWO SUBSCRIBERS 400 "
FIVE SUBSCRIBERS 900 “
ALL MAIL SUBSCRIPTIONS MUST BE PAID IN AD
FANCE. POSTAGE PAID EVERYWHERE •BY THE
DISPATCH OFFICE.
AOarew NEW YORK DISPATCH,
Post Office Bos No. 17 75.
PLAYS AND 2 PLAYERS.
The Story of “ My Stepmother.”
The ** Working-Room of a Dramatist—
Fred Mamlen’g Opinion — Minnie
Palmer’s Order—The Reading ol
a Play—“ Humbug”—An Inci
dent .Of Real Life—A Tailor
. Playwright — Hunting
Down an Adventur
ess-Money First,
Fame After
ward.
BY JOHN CARBOY.
In West One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Sixth street,
wot far from Ninth avenue, resides Mr. Fred Mars
den, the dramatist. From his " working-room ”
windows—on the third floor—he can, and very fre
quently does, look out upon what Mr. Dick Swivel
ler would term, "a magnificent view of over the
way.”
In this instance, " over the way ” includes a per
spective which has the High Bridge for its vanish
ing point, and Mount St. Vincent College as its
middle ground.
His vision, were he sufficiently cross-eyed, could
jet around the corner of this convent-crowned hill,
tnd have a distant though not very satisfactory
{limpse of the Morosini mansion.
There is in the immediate foreground a defiant
iddge of rocks, which would be exceedingly pictur
esque were it not within the reach of the after
noon shadow of divers contract flat-houses in pro
cess of erection.
Bricks and mortar knock the picturesque and po
etic out as effectually as the weather clerk knocked
out the only Wiggins on St. Patrick’s Day.
The sky was as clear of moisture as a snap ac
tor’s pockets of ducats, as cloudless as the brow of
i ballet girl over her first bouquet,and as invigorat
ing to the win ter-worn mortal as ginger'to a spav
- iued car-horse.
It was—this St. Patrick’s Day—a joy to everybody,
•• Celtic or otherwise, excepting the False Prophet
Wiggins, and on the afternoon of this day I visited
the dramatist.
He was at home, and he was not struggling with
< the argument of a new play. His mind was not
troubling itself as to whether the polished villain
: should be lugged off in the last act by retributive
jueticejin the guise of a Detective Hawkshaw, or be
compelled at the final moment to accept the sound
of the warning bell as his cue to blow his brains out,
< stab himself> or collapse all in a heap on the stage.
The dramatist was in his working room—"study,”
if that title suits you better—and was as calm and
peaceful as a Harlem Sunday.
When I entered the presence of the author of
"Zip,” "Kerry Gow,” "Clouds,” "Shaun Rhue,”
••Humbug,” "Cheek,” and a score of other plays
which have brought him reputation, royalties, and
a bank ac count, be was
SITTING BENDING OVER A TABLE
near one of the windows, amusing himself with
peering into the business end of a microscope of
I don’t know how many insect power.
In a case upon a chair beside him were a variety
< of object glasses, lenses, and all the appliances nec
essary to the nWchanical well-being of the instru
ment.
In the centre of the room a library table was sdorn
ed with a box of Henry Clay specials and other bric-a
brac in the-refreshment line, and a student’s dou
ble-barrelled lamp. Near by, a little stand, upon
which were little pots of fragrant smoking tobacco;
at one side of. the room a desk over which was an
actor’s portrait. On the walls were crossed swords;
a gigantic merschaum pipe, the coloring of which,
by the usual process of smoking, must have sent a
score of able-bodied smokers into consumption and
■untimely graveshalf-a-dozen cabinet portraits
and two or three play-bills. There was on a chair
in one corner, a black tin case which looked like a
bread box, but which contained a type-writing ma
chine.
There was a sofa, upon which, as I came in, was
lying, like a warrior taking his rest, the dramatist’s
, dog—faithful "Jack.”
Jaek slowly arose, shook, his head, gyrated his
• tail thrice, solemnly gave me a wink with his off
. eye and with the gravity, of a statesman resigning
his office against his will, vacated the sofa and re
: tired to the seclusion and cooling draught which a
; temporary repose upon the carpet might afford.
"Ah, ha—you’re here at last, eh ? It’s an age
. since your last appearance .in these palatial halls.
• Take a seat, and anything else you find lying about
, loose,” was his cheery greeting. Ajid Jack endorsed
It by a series of whacks on the carpet with his mus
, cular tail.
"I’ve just returned from Chicago,” continued
Marsden. "I did not 450 for.- the purpose of wit
nessing the performance of ; the, comedy of‘Hum
bug,’ which I wrote for Roland Reed—not a bit of
it. I went there on a matter pf business—to read
to Minnie Palmer the dram*l have just finished
for her.
"Did I read it? I did. Only Rogers and the Lit
tle Sweethcai't were present. After all. the, reading
of a njauuscript play by the .author to. a little or
large groqp of listeners, whether .they be friends or
strangers, is a pleasure to them and to,,hipi, if his
.heart is in his work. If he has written it with his
.mind upon the price he is to ireceive for,it-r-the
.reading of it-is
" A BORE TO ALL CONCERNED.
.•• The is in earnest and relies upon, the
imerits of hie labor, is the one who is bound to have
.a.respectful hearing from those to whose benefit his
.effort is dedicated. After this prefatory lecture,
John, what 11 yon have to revive you? Name your
exhilerant. Hanneasy—’lß; Bass’s ale; rye, ancient
of days; Bechtel's bottled ‘Excelsior*; sherry, ab
jsinthe, or a sparkle, or two of Red Label ?”
With becoming modesty I murmured, "Rye is
mine ancient.”
Jack gave the carpet a vigorous whack withihis
caudal attribute, as if to .say, " You’re all right.”
The rye was brought up from the regions below
and properly sampled. filled his favorite
and the subscriber began the process
of cremating one.af the Colm&do Maduro specials to
ashes,
"I read the play ia Minnie and her manager,
Rogers, and when I had finished ihe last line of the
last act, neither she nor her manager could suggest
a change or alteration, either in its language or its
business. It is Cigars too string for you?
Try a pipe. There’s half a dozen. N-j, I haven’t
an opium bowl. I’m not running a 'joint* up here.
411 right—puff away—there’s a whole box W them.
It is in four actSjand I have given it the fßle of
•My Stepmother.’ It is in nowise a sequel to 'IJIy
Sweetheart.’ That is, I mean it has no connection
with thet work either in the nature of its charac,
ters or ijUscenarium. It differs from ‘My Sweet
heart’ in eyery respect. It is not of the • Zip,’
pr tomboy type. I have, in writing
play for Minnie Palmer, endeavored also to so con
struct it that it will please and interest the audi
<ence’'as well. Ido not write to please the critics of
the ‘press. I like their approbation—all men in
every profession crave praise from the critical
rather than condemnation, providing the judgment
favorable or adverse is not the result of prejudice.
" In this, • My Stepmother,’ I have, as I think, ven
tured upon a new field in dramatic work. Ido not
know that the subject has ever been used in a play.
We have had mothers’-in-law, an occasional ogre of
a stepfather, and all sorts of widows, widowers,
sisters, cousins, uncles, aunts, and governesses, but
never a stepmother as the keynote of a atory in
dramatic form.
" This stepmother is a type of a class of women
who, in becoming the wives of widowers with
children, no sooner obtain a dominance over their
husbands, at once proceed either covertly or openly
to over his * mitherless bairns/ The idea
of this play was suggested to me by the experience
of a friend of mine, which a few months ago came to
my knowledge. In fact, he related the incidents to me
and they struck me at the time as affording ample
material for a play.
" Two days after he had revealed the lamentable
episode of his married life, I
"RECEIVE# A LETTER FROM JOHN R» ROGERS
" asking me if I would write a play for Minnie
Palmer—adding—* on your own terms.’
" I was perfectly familiar with Miss Palmer’s
methods of acting, with her capacity, and of what
should be the nature and peculiarities of the char
acter which would best fit her. I answered the
lettei in the affirmative. The manager and myself
had a meeting—right here in this room.”
Jack tapped the carpet two or three times with
the elastic extension of his spinal vertebrae as if
to say " right you are, gov. I was here.”
"He gave me his idea of what he thought the
play should be. I did not agree with him. Finally,
in his quick eccentric manner, ho told me to choose
my own subject and—* go ahead.’ ”
'• You see I had my subject in the episode of my
friend’s marital experience. Briefly—it was this:
Some seven years ago his first wife died, leaving to
his care a daughter then fifteen years of age. As he
told me, he had in his grief over her loss resolved
never to marry again. As time passed his sorrow
faded out—but the memory of hie lost wife lived in
the beauty, the tender affection and devotion for
him of his motherless daughter. Two years later
he was beguiled by a clever and handsome woman
into a forgetfulness of hie resolve not to marry
again. He yielded to her fascinations and made her
his wife—the stepmother Of his daughter. Scarcely
was the honeymoon over and his household settled
down to the routine of its daily round of domestic
duties wheu the new wife began to exercise her
authority over the young girl, and to irritate, and
annoy her in all the petty ways her ingenuity could
devise. The daughter for months endured this
misery without revealing her unhappiness to the
father. On the contrary, in his presence she tried
her best to be as joyous, bright, cheery and light
hearted as she was before the hateful presence of
this stepmother began to darken her young life.
" The wife proved to be extravagant in her expen -
ditures; money melted from her grasp like snow in
the sunlight. But she bought nothing for the
house; scarcely anything for herself. When my
friend took her to him as his wife she was without
means, but was the possessor of a few very costly
dresses and a fair showing of jewelry. To these
with all the money he had given her without stint
she made no additions. Where did the money go ?
"One morning the daughter happened to look in
to the closet where her dead mother’s dresses, keep
sakes and jewels had been put away and almost
held sacred from touch. To her surprise the jewel
boxes, dresses—all were gone.
"She told her father, in the presence of the step
mother, who at once attributed the disappearance
of the valuables to the dishonesty of a servant lately
discharged by her. The husband believed this, but
the daughter did not and resolved to watch every
movement of her arch enemy. At last she discov
ered that this
♦• STEPMOTHER WAS AN ADVENTURESS,
"and was then the mistress of a gambler, and that
it was he to whom went the money provided by her
dupe of a husband. Armed with this discovery the
daughter determined to hunt this woman to earth,
sought the aid of a police detective—an old friend of
her father’s—told him her story, and imparted to
him her suspicions that the woman had herself
made away with the contents of the closet. Within
ten days the detective came to the young girl and
showed her the result of his investigations. The
dresses and jewels, everything bad been pawned in
the Bowery, not by the woman but by her loverand
master—the gambler. Further, that the woman be
fore and .for a while after becoming the slave of the
gambler was a shoplifter, her operations however
in that line having been carried on in a neighboring
city.
"The daughter brought the detective to her
father, and face to face with them the woman was
brought to bay. She braved it out to the last—and
then—well, she in the end got her just deserts. She
is now serving time in Cherry HiH Prison, Phila
delphia, while the gambler is .playing his little
game somewhere in the South. This is the story
told me by my friend, and which suggested tome
the subject for Miss Palmer’s play.
Do I follow in my work the incidents I have nar
rated ? Oh, no, save in the antagonism of the step
mother to the daughter, the daughter's avoidance
of complaint to her father, and the blind infatua
tion of the father for his new wife.
"In the play the keynotes to the daughter’s ac
tion are her love for her dead mother, and the re
membrance of a solemn vow her father made to
that mother on her death-bed that he would never
marry again, and that no one but ho should watch
over and guard the daughter until she was happily
married.
"In the play the interest grows and culminates
upon the efforts of the daughter to battle down
this stepmother; to foil her endeavors to obtain the
mastery of her father’s house and deceive him. She
plays a double role. In his presence she is always
bright, almost hoydenish, gleeful, kittenish, laygh--
ing and lively; out of his presence she is thoughtful,
almost womaaly, and sorrowing over the wretched
fate which this woman has brought upon her, ,and
the deceit that is being practiced upon her father,
whom she so dearly loves.
"IN THE PRESENCE OF THE WOMAN
"she is watchful, reserved and serious, and when all
these personages are on the stage she alternates
from one of these moods to the other as f&e nature
of the scene requires.”
" You have in this play made, you think, a jporfect
fit.”
"There you are hinging on the tailor business.
Take a thimbleful more of that rye and another
cigar.”
Jack arose, waved his curled caudal extension,
lifted his ears and for a moment gazed alternately
aWhe bottle and at me as I poured out quantum
. sufi into my glass. Then as if satisfied that I would
leava enough in the bottle for his master’s next ra
tipn lie quietly stretched himself out in his old
position.
"I bear that cry of tailor-dramatists everyday.
Now .what on earth, at the present time at least,
are plays written for—for fame or money ? Is the
editor of the Dispatch a tailor-editor because he
,E2akeg his.editorials to suit th® condition and de
mand of its readers ? Must a playwright occupy
his time for fire or six months in siting up a fine
ly-worded comedy or drama, racking his brain to
polish ft; fill jt with fine phrases in elegant diction
and cram it with poetic thoughts for ths mere pur
pose of hawking H around from one manager to
another: button-holing every star in tfia theatric
firmament; waiting weary week in and weary week
out, month after month, srith starvation staring him
in the face 1 Must he go through this purgatory of
misery merely that in some after-time, when fie is
laid away in a pauper's grave, it may be said of
that he wrote a superb play; bst> poor fellow, he
was ahead of his time ?
"Or if he does find at last a manager who does not
chfc/k the manuscript back at him with a sneer, or
yljp dfles not dodge hila as lie won.ld st Bes.tijeaf |
NEW YORK. SUNDAY, MARCH 22, 1885.
rogue, and finds one who will purchase it, he will
be obliged to wait for its production until, in his
poverty, he is willing to take a mere fragment of its
value and give it up.
•'lt requires equally as much talent to write a
play for a star as it does to get up such plays as are
ordinarily written up for the stock company of a
theatre.
•‘I am writing plays for money. If the play I
write to order for the star fits the star, and at the
same time pleases the public, I am doubly paid, for
I have reputation and public regard as the interest
on the price I receive for my work, lam perfectly
content to be called
"A TAILOR PLAYWRIGHT.
"It don’t hurt me, lower me in the estimation of
the public, decrease the value of my work, or injure
those for whom I write. They are the best judges
of the value of my work. I wrote one comedy to
please the critics. That was when I was at the be
ginning of my career. They praised it—after a
fashion—but as it hadn't a star part in it, it came to
grief. I’ve got it yet.
"Yes, the Chicago critics did score my play of
•Humbug.’ They have always scored my work
slated is the word. But, nevertheless, with the ex
ception of Barron, of the Inter-Ocean, who was very
fair in his criticism—nevertheless, despite their
venom because Roland Reed did not come to Chi
cago to have his play written—every one of ’em has
a rejected play in his coat-tail pocket—the theatre
has been packed every night since his engagement
began there, and the box office receipts and my roy
alties proclaim the public indorsement of the play.
"We all work for money. The ability a man in
any profession displays in earning the price of his
labor fixes the extent of his reputation. The ease
of mind and comfort that an honestly and conscien
tiously acquired income brings are the greatest and
truest incentives he can have to widen the sphere of
his labor and increase the greatness of his reputa
tion.”
The hour—4 o’clock. Another cigar ? No, So
leaving the "work room” and reaching the front
door, we shook hands and I went my wkv to the
station.
Not, however, without receiving a quiet wink
from Jack, who had trotted down stairs after us.
OUR BRiyFjliLllU.
THE UNLUCKY ELEVENTH.
A Regiment which Fate keeps in Perpetual
Hot Water—Col. Unbekant and his
Unruly Lambs—A Regiment
Under Arrest—A Dan-
gerous Drill-
Room.
Fifty years ago New York boasted of a number of
militia companies which called themselves regi
ments. They were in reality little clubs of citizens,
some few being veterans of the war of 1812 and our
border conflicts with the Indians, but the majority
of whom possessed no knowledge or experience in
real warfare. These organizations uniformed and
armed themselves, and paid all of the expenses of
their maintenance, just as any Masonic or other
lodge does to-day. They exercised their own judg
ment in selecting their uniforms, and in many
companies little, if any, pretext was made at a uni
form at all. The result was that when the militia
turned out on parade they presented a front far
more picturesque and varied than warlike.
One of the oddest of these little circles of civilian
warriors was what was called the Second Regiment,
Washington Guards, Now York Light Infantry.
The earliest record that can be discovered of the
organization is in April, 1835, when it is chronicled
to have paraded amid
MUCH POPULAR ENTHUSIASM.
It seems, from the few reports preserved of it, to
have been a small but tolerably well organized
force, and to have numbered on its membership
roll many of the boys who ran with the machine.
This is the more curious as the firemen in those
days were not prone to take part in the militia
service, having their hands full, and more than
full, of the duties of their own department.
About 1356 there was an overhauling of the local
militia, and the Second Regiment came in for its
share. It was pulled together and reorganized, and
its title changed to the present one. The regiment
seems to have clung to the name of the father of his
country with superstitious fond ness, however, for,
in addition to its numerical rating, it carried the
title of the Washington Rifles.
The regiment was first made up principally of
natives, but just after its organization it began to
receive into its ranks members from among our
German population. The present Colonel, Freder
ick Unbekant, was one of the first of these addi
tions to it. He was a private in the regiment as
far back as 1858. Captain Frederick Klonz is another
veteran member, having entered in 1857. Colonel
Unbekant was a Second Lieutenant in the Eleventh
at the outbreak of the rebellion, and Captain Klonz
a First Lieutenant. Both are thorough soldiers.
Many of the Germans who entered the old Eleventh
were refugees from the political troubles of their
fatherland, and nearly all had seen some service as
soldiers at home. The result was that the regiment
attained to an exceptional degree of proficiency
among the regiments of the time, and came to be
regarded as
QUITE A CRACK CORPS.
When the first gun on Sumpter rolled its sullen
call to battle into the remotest corners of the land,
the. Eleventh was an organized regiment, but still
extremely weak in numbers, though expert in
drill. The patriotism of its German members, how
ever, rapidly filled its ranks. They drummed up
their compatriots by the score, and the result was
that the native element in the regiment was soon in
the minority. When, in May, 1862, the Eleventh en
listed for three months service at the front, it was
almost as German a regiment aS the Sixtyrninth
was Irish.
The regiment served its time out at Harper’s
Ferry, and was one of the bodies that surrendered
there, having the Twelfth Regiment for company in
the misery of defeat.
In 1863. the regiment re-enlisted for the same term
as before, in order to aid in checking the Confeder
ate advance into Pennsylvania. This time At had a
skirmish at Oyster Point, and with this ends its war
record as a regiment. Many of its .members, how
ever, served in other regiments with gallantry and
honor, so that while the regimental record in.bat
tle is
THE REVERSE OF A BRILLIANT ONE,
it<is.redeemed by many individual merits. Indeed
the roster of the.veteran corps of the Eleventh in
cludes many names which won honor for them
selves in battle. But it does not, like many other
of our militia organizations, boast the possession of
members who have reached the highest eminence
of command. General Sigel is often claimed for the
Eleventh Regiment, but lie never belonged t© it.
While he was teaching mathematics in Dr. Rudolph
Dalon’s Academy, in Market street, he was a mem
ber of the Fifth Regiment,.and eventually became
its Major. But three years be/ore the war broke out
he went to St. Louis, and it was while professor in
a college there that he entered the service as lieu
tenant-colonel of the Third Missouri Volunteers.
The only claim the Eleventh can possibly have on
him is that when the Fifth and Fift^-fifth regiments
—both German organizations—fell into a decline*
the Eleventh absorbed their members into its ranks
just as the Seventy-first absorbed the Seventy-ninth
Highlanders.
Though the end of the war found the Eleventh a
lusty regiment, and though it was strengthened by
the additions made to it until it became, numerical
ly at least, a very solid body indeed, its history dur
ing the last ten years or so is one of vicissitudes.
The most demoniac spirit of demoralization seems
to have found lodgement in it, and stories of the
ggiost extraordinary character are told of the disaf
fection and insubordination which has taken place
in its ranks.
jf; is,spoken of ai»9Pg militiamen as the sole re-
Starless anfr
giment in America which has had put upon it the
crowning disgrace which can be imposed on a mili
tia regiment. On one occasion the insubordination
of the Eleventh on parade, caused the entire regi
ment to be ordered to its armory
UNDER ARREST, BY THE GENERAL
in command. Of late years the devotion and self
sacrifice of Col. Unbekant has done much to hold the
Eleventh together, but the colonel’s recent illness
has not been conducive to the benefit of the corps,
for it has given the disaffected spirits an opportu
nity to operate unchecked by him. As an authority
on militia matters puts it, about the only point the
Eleventh does not disagree on is, that its armory is
not fit to drill in. The quarters assigned to the
regiment in the Essex Market building, are totally
inadequate to the uses they are put to, and no one
would be surprised to learn some day that the
wreck of the Eleventh had buried in the ruins
of its armory.
The Twenty-second Regiment will take its place on
drill in the Dispatch next Sunday. The Twenty-second
is a typical militia regiment, and its history is a monu
ment to American patriotism whdeh has Jew rivals and
no superiors in our National Guard.
VILE OLD MEN.
Brooklyn Ladies Terrorized by
Aged Libertines.
Little School Children Waylaid by
Gray-Haired Villains.
Indecent Actions by Harpies who
Prey upon Innocence.
The Police Powerless and the Cit
izens Acting as Regulators.
An Anticipated Boom in the Local Am
bulance Service.
"It is becoming absolutely unsafe for respectable
women to waik on tho Brooklyn streets in the day
time unices accompanied,” said a citieen to a Dis
patch man a few days ago.
"Why?”
"The city is full of aged and gray-haired liber
tines, who accost them at every point, and either
pretend to know them or openly insult them. Let
us go and sit down somewhere, and I’ll give you a
column article for your paper. It may aid in rid
ding the city of these miscreants, who should be
thinking of their grave clothes, instead of practis
ing their filthy occupation.”
A warm stove, an inviting-looking bar and the
other concomitants of hospitality were soon at
hand, and the gentleman proceeded:
" This matter has now reached the alarming stage
whore it should be nipped off short. It is next to
impossible for our women folks to do any shopping
or to appear on the streets, even in broad daylight,
without being insulted by these harpies. The more
modest-looking the female, the greater the danger,
as these men appear to pick out for their prey In
nocent-looking women. My wife is near-sighted,
and upon a dozen occasions recently, while
she has been shopping on Fulton street, she has
been approached by old men, who have endeavored
to ingratiate themselves into her good graces.
"The usual mode? Oh, yes! While she was
looking into a store window a few days ago, an old
villain approached her and said: 'Ah, how do you
do, Mrs. Henry ?’ She told him he must be mis
taken. Later on the same brute accosted her as
•Mrs. Livingston/ When she threatened to call a
policeman he . hurried away. In relating the cir
cumstance to a party of friends—there were eight
ladies in the party—all stated that they had been
approached in the same way. Two went further,
and said that old libertines had pressed themselves
between the relators and the store windows, and
had made suggestive motions while accosting them.
DANGER TO SCHOOL CHILDREN.
" If it were the women folks alone,” said the gen
tleman, " I would hesitate in speaking of the mat
ter, but our children are in danger. Scarcely a day
passes bnt these nasty old men approach the school
children while on their way to and from school,
and make indecent proposals to them, or endeavor,
by the promise of candy or coin, to have the little
girls accompany them * for a walk/
AN OLD VILLAIN’S ACTS.
•'My little girl—she is thirteen—attends a public
school in South Brooklyn. An old villain makes
that neighborhood his place of rendezvous. He has
never had any hesitancy in exposing his person in
the street, and I can name a score of parents who
have hunted for him with loaded revolvers. The
police were notified, and for several weeks a detect
ive of the Eighth Precinct did nothing else but fol
low the children to and from school for the purpose
of apprehending the old rascal. He must have
heard of it, for he stopped short. While the detect
ive was shadowing the little ones the villain took
another tack. He visited over a score of houses on
Prospect Hights. If an adult answered his ring at
the door-bell, he asked for some imaginary indi
vidual. If a young girl went to the door, he made
a beastly show of himself. The detective finally
hunted him down and located him on Fifth street.
He was the father of grown children and was nasty
from principle. None of those he had offended
would appear against him, and of course it was im
possible to punish him. You search this matter up
and you’ll find that the same thing exists all over
the city to an alarming degree.”
THE DISPATCH PERSONALLY INVESTIGATES.
Acting upon the advice of the gentleman the Dis
patch man made a personal investigation, and
proved that half the truth had not been told.
The first call was made upon Detective George
.Stahlsworthy, of the Eighth Precinct, who was de
signated by Captain Murphy as the officer who had
had charge of the matter above set forth. The de
tective confirmed the gentleman’s story in every
particular, but said that it was impossible to con
vict the offenders, as the offended parties, fearing
notoriety, refused, in every instance, to prosecute.
"This is not the only case of the kind,” said the
detective; "instances of alike nature are heard of
all-over the city, but we can’t do anything without
a plaintiff.”
VILLAINS IN THE STREET CARS.
Investigating further, the Dispatch man called
upon number of gentlemen whose names had
been secured as the fathers of families, the members
of which had been thus insulted.
"In every instance,” said one gentleman, "the
offenders are senile and gray-haired men, of whom
one would expect better things. I was riding on a
street-car a few days ago, when I saw au old man
offer two little girls some pennies. He moved up
close to them and smoothed their hair. Finally
they became frightened and I went to them. The
old villain hurriedly left the car and disappeared
down a side street. Then the little girls informed
mo that he had asked them to go with him to his
house, ‘ where he little girls of their own
age/ Numerous casesofa like nature have come
under iny notice recently. My own little girls have
been approached on several occasions.”
" Why didn’t you hunt up the miscreants and
prosecute them ?”
"I did endeavor to hunt them up, and if I had
found them I would have prosecuted them with
my stout cane. It wouldn’t do to prosecute them in
the courts. It would give the children undue no
toriety, and they would have been made the butt of
their companions, although most of their compan
ions had had a like experience. A pistol or a club
is the best prosecutor, and I know a half-dozen gen
tlemen who go armed especially for this purpose.”
A FAVORITE TRAMPING GROUND.
Prospect Park and the smaller parks throughout
city were, and are now, to a certain extent, the
favorite tramping-grounds of these vile libertines.
They waylaid children and even grown women in se
questered nooks and made filthy exhibitions of ,
themselves. z The nknic woods were a favorite place 1
of rendezvous. The matter was called to the atten
tion of Chief-Engineer and Superintendent John Y.
Culyer, and he soon cleared the parks of the villains
so far as was possible. They are there to-day, but
the cases are isolated ones, as the park keepers have
been instructed to study up on the old adage, with
amendments: " Sparc not the club and spoil the old
man.’*
THE FULTON STREET GANG.
It would appear as if there were a regularly or
ganized gang of these old reprobates on Fulton
street and the other principal thoroughfarea of the
City of Churches. They have crowded out the local
young masher, and have cast the latter’s vile impu
dence into insignificance. Scarcely a day passes
but the police are notified of insults suffered by
ladies while shopping. Here is a case in point. It
can be authenticated, but for obvious reasons names
are withheld:
A gentleman and his wife were walking down
Fulton street one day last week, when in the neigh
borhood of Johnson street, the gentleman stopped
to speak to a friend, the lady, meanwhile, occupy
ing her time by gazing into a near-by window. She
had scarcely left her husband when an old man,
whose description is retained by the writer for fu
ture action, approached her, grasped her hand and
said:
" Didn’t I speak to you in New York last week ?”
Before the lady could withdraw her hand the old
villain had accomplished his evidently prearranged
purpose, and had performed an indecent action.
Before the lady could call to her husband the vil
lain had disappeared in the crowd.
The gentleman had business in the bridge office
on Sands street’, and he left his wife for an instant
to leave a letter inside. The lady was closely vailed,
and stood near the stoop. An old villain —not the
one who had before accosted her—approached her
asked her to accompany him to New York.
This was in broad daylight, it being then but two j
o’clock in the afternoon,
THE POLICE UTTERLY POWERLESS.,
There are but a few of the instances which have
been brought to the writer’s notice. Scores of
others of a like nature could be related were space
at hand. Upon questioning police officials, they
said they knew all about the matter, and were on
the watch for the villains, but, of course, they
could do nothing unless they caught them in the
act. Citizens would not prosecute.
CITIZENS ON THE WATCH.
The writer has positive knowledge that while the
citizens, for the reasons given, are loth to prose
cute, a number of them have determined to take
the matter into their own hands. Salutations like
this are now frequent on the street:
"Why, how d’ do, Blank? I saw your wife just up
the street. How is it you’re not with her ?”
'•l’m near enough to her. I’m watching for the
old man that insulted her in this neighborhood the
other day,”
Then explanations follow, and in nine cases out
of ten the other individual has like experiences to
relate. As matters look now the Brooklyn ambu
lance service will receive a boom ere the Springtime
comes, gentle Annie.
FIVE ADEPTS AT CRIME.
The Doings of Monsieur Trueville and his
“Family.”
Clever Forgeries in London on the
French Minister.
How the Fascinating Eugenie
Brought Grist to the Mill.
Criminal Experts in the French
Metropolis.
In a large, handsomely furnished room over a tai
lor’s store on the Rue Chalet, Paris, four men sat
one evening in June, 1862, smoking and drinking.
The oldest was dressed in a suit of blue, with a
tight-fitting surtout, and wore a gray mustache.
His complexion was fair and ruddy, and his head
bald with the exception of a fringe of gray curls
round the back of it. The other three were all
swarthy and appeared to be between twenty-five
and thirty-five years of age, and wore full, dark
beards.
"We must strike something new,” said the eld
est, " ail the old lines of business are closed. What
do you say,* Fargeau ?”
"I agree with you, Trouville,” was the reply;
"and I’m sure, from what I have heard them say,
our friends here/ Houdoit and de Baume, think the
same.”
"Lauzin, our friend below,” said de Baume,
pointing with his finger to the floor, " has got a new
customer, he tells me—a rich one**
" Ah, that is interesting.” said Houdait. " Let us
hear about him.”
"He is an Englishman, but speaks French like a
native,” was the answer; "and has rooms in the
Rue du Petit Thouars. He is anywhere from forty
to fifty years of age, lives well, and does not go into
society. He is eccentric and a bachelor, and pays
Lauzin twice the value of all he purchases.”
" We must devise means to work this mine,” said
Fargeau.
" Lauzin,” said Trouville "is a clever fellow, but
he has no suspicions, and it must be our object to
take care to arouse none.”
" He has had no reason for suspicions,” de Baume
said, with a curious smile; "for, though we rent
our apartment from him, our entrance is from the
Rue de Normandie—the entrance from the Rue
Chalet wt never use— and he has no way, without our
permission, of entering them or knowing what we
do here.”
"But this rich Englishman—what is his name?”
asked Trouville.
"William Clements,” was the reply. "Lot us
cultivate his acquaintance.”
SIX MONTHS EARLIER.
In December, 1861, the French Minister at the
Court of St. James gave a check for sixty-three
pounds on Baring Brothers, to M. Noyer, a picture
dealer, in settlement of an account. At the time a
gentleman, middle-aged, with an abundant head of
dark, "curly hair, and an olive complexion, stood
near and quitted the store as the French Minister
went out to his carriage. An hour later, the gentle
man referred to, returned and said that the French
Minister desired to withdraw the check, as he found
he had not sufficient funds at the bank, and to pay
the money instead. The money was paid and the
check returned. The same day it was cashed at
Baring Brothers’ bank by the gentleman. Next
morning, a young man, who looked like a clerk,
presented at the bank a check for £2,375, purport
ing to bear the signature of the French Minister,
and payable to Ston & Mortimer, the famous Lon
don jewelers.
The check was cashed and next day discovered to
be a forgery. Examination of the check for £63
showed that the endorsement of Noyer was like
wise a forgery and this led to a disclosure re
specting the withdrawal of the check and the pay
ment of the money. No doubt existed that the man
with the black hair and olive complexion was con
. nected with both crimes and that the first check had
been procured with a view to perpetrate the second
crime. The middle-aged man and the young man
both spoke with a French accent, and that was
some slight clew.
Villars, an expert detective, was put upon the
case. He learned that the day when the larger
check was paid, four mon—evidently French—were
seen to go on board the Calais boat at Dover, and
that one of them answered the description of the
middle-aged man. Villars followed and traced the
four men to Brussels, thence to Berlin and finally to
Paris. Here he was absolutely at fault and could
find no trace of them.
UNCLE AND NEPHEWS.
Early in March, 1862, a Monsieur Trouville, bis
daughter (Eugenie) and his three nephews (de
Baume, Farjeau and Houdait) rented the two floors
above the store of Lauzin, the tailor, on the Rue
Chalet. Eugenie was about twenty.two and a very ;
OFFICE, NO, 11 FRANKFORT BT.
lovely and attractive blonde. Monsieur Trouville
said that he and his nephews were engaged in
finance and did business on the Bourse. A few
days later Monsieur Trouville brought home to
spend the evening a Monsieur Dupuytren, a gentle
man of thirty, residing in a fine residence near
Sevres. Eugenie was very fascinating and the vis
itor was charmed. Ho came again and again, and
finally began to make visits early in the day. One
day when Monsieur Dupuytren was there. Monsieur
Trouville entered by the door on the Rue Chalet
and discovered Monsieur Dupuytren in a situation
that left no doubt of his guilty intimacy with
Eugenie. There was a terrible scene and a revolver
was drawn. Dupuytren begged and entreated that
there might be no disclosure, as ho was but recent"
ly married, and finally settled the difficulty by
drawing his check for 50,000 francs.
MORE VICTIMS.
A few days later a Monsieur Jessaint was intro
duced to the Trouville household in the same way
old Monsieur Dupuytren had been, and was caught
in tho same way. He was an old roue, and was dis
posed to fight the thing through; but when he re
membered that his eldest daughter was about to
marry a marquis, and that the scandal would proba
bly ruin her prospects, he succumbed, and came
down handsomely.
The next victim was the Count de Martlgnao, a
young man of twenty-two, with a large fortune and
fine prospects. He fell into the trap, but things
were managed differently this time. Eugenie was
shy and retiring, and led the amorous youth on by
degrees, until, in a fatal moment, he promised mar
riage, and made no secret of his having done so to
the head of the family. He was accepted, of course.
But when his friends learned the fact—which
Monsieur Trouville took good care they should—
there was a proposition to settle the matter by the
payment of a large sum. It was accepted, and the
So uni was free.
VILLARS ON HANDk
In the meantime, Villars had been Uncalled, but
in the early part of June returned io Paris to look
for a certain Monsieur Verviers, or Amelot, who had
been engaged in extensive business frauds in Man
chester. Villars assumed the name of Clements,
and took apartments in the Rue du Petit Thonars.
On three or four occasions, while returning home
through the Rue do Normandie, he saw four gentle
men, one elderly and the others young, enter a
house on that street. This set him thinking.
"Four men,” he mused—"one elderly and three
young, and always together. It is worth looking
into.”
And so he looked into it. He called in Lauzin’s
store and ordered a vest. When that was sent
home, he called again and ordered trousers, and
talked with the tailor. His apartments must be
pleasant. Yes, they were. Were they all rented?
Yes; Monsieur Trouville, his daughter and his three
nephews were his tenants. Mr. Clements was sor
ry. The apartments he was in were limited. He
liked corner rooms—they were so airy and (light.
Money was no consideration, for, thank Heaven, he
was a bachelor and rich. Was Monsieur Trouville
likely to givsj up the apartments ? Lauzin didn’t
know; be would ask. And so he did, and told Mon
sieur Trouville of the wealthy English bachelor.
And this was what gave rise to the conversation at
the beginning of this narrative.
, THEY CULTIVATE MR. CLEMENTS’S ACQUAINT
ANCE.
In accordance with tho resolution to cultivate
Mr. Clements’s acquaintance, Monsieur Trouville
called on him at his rooms and expressed regret
that their arrangements were such as to prevent
their giving up their apartments for the present.
But Mr. Clements might have the use of them as a
welcome guest whenever he chose to call, and
would he come that evening ? Mr. Clements would
and did, and called many times more, and was
charmed with Ma’amselle Eugenie. He also took
an opportunity to examine Eugenie’s card-basket
and copied the names of her visitors, and among
them were those of Monsieur August Dupuytren,
Monsieur Henri Jessaint, and the Count da Martig
nac. Mr. Clements was flesh and blood, and the
wiles of Ma’amselle Eugenie were almost too much
for him; nevertheless he resisted temptation. He
visited Monsieur Trouville and his nephews at their
office on the Rue Joquelet, and many distinguished
men were pointed out to him as their friends. Un
cle and nephews treated Air. Clements with marked
consideration and made up their minds that they
had caught a fat prize.
But Mr. Clements made use of the names which
ho found on Eugenie’s visiting cards. He called on
the three gentlemen whose names are known to the
reader and asked them candidly what they knew of
Monsieur Trouville and his family. At first they
were shy and declined to talk, but when Mr. Clem
ents spoke candidly to them, told to them his real
character and explained his suspicions, they related
their experience with Monsieur Trouville, having
first obtained a pledge that the facts should never
be revealed without consent, and that no ar
rests should be made in Paris.
IN THE TOILS.
Then Mr. Clements telegraphed to London, and
Mr. Noyer, the picture dealer, and Mr. Bruce, the
cashier of Baring Brothers, came to Paris and iden
tified Monsieur Trouville as the man who withdrew
the French Minister’s check and afterward present
ed it to tho bank. Houdoit was also identified by
Mr. Bruce as the man who cashed the check for
£2,375.
Mr. Clements, soon’ after this, expressed regret
that business called him to England, and pressed
Monsieur Trouville and Eugenie and tho nephews to
accompany him to England, and spend a month or
six weeks at his country seat in Devonshire. They
took the bait and accepted. When they reached
Dover Monsieur Trouville and Houdoit were arrest
ed, and the other three detained. In the meantime
the police in Brussels and Berlin had been commu
nicated with and a description of Monsieur Trou
villo and his companions forwarded to them. From
Berlin information came that the parties answered
tho description of persons who had, some months
before, perpetrated a series of clever villainies in
that city. Tho necessary formalities were complied
with, and De Baume, Farjeau and Eugenie were de
livered over to the Prussian authorities. Trouville
and Houdoit went into forced retirement at Port
land prison, and the others received their deserts.
It is needless to say that uo relationship existed
between the parties. Eugenie was Farjeau's mis
tress, and had formerly occupied a humble position
at one of the minor theatres of Paris. Trouville
was an old and experienced hand at all kinds of
fraud and wickedness, and had escaped arrest owing
to his wonderful facility of disguise.
MIGHT EXPECT ARREST.
THE WRONG TIME TO STEAL A
TUB OF BUTTER.
Frank Klein and Frank Crystal were charged with
stealing a tub of butter from the cellar of the bake
shop of Rudolph Glattle, No. 337 East Fourteenth
street. Klein pleaded guilty. Officer Monahan
found Klein carrying the tub. Crystal was with
him. This was at 2 o’clock in the morning. The
officer asked Klein where he got it. He said he stole
it, and wanted to carry it back. Crystal said he was
invited over by Klein, who promised to present him
with a tub of butter.
Crystal lives in the Twentieth Ward, and Officer
Fleming and four other witnesses gave him an ex
cellent character.
Crystal said he lived at No. 421 West Thirty-eighth
street and never was arrested in his life. Klein was
at his house and told him he had a tub of butter
over at home that he would give him. He did not
want it; but his friend was intoxicated and he went
with him to see him heme. There had been a fire
in Klein’s house. After he took him home, he came
after him with this tub. He supposed his friend
had ©ought it.
Complainant said there bad been a fire in the
bake-shop two weeks before, but that was no reason (
that they should lick his butter up if tho lire had
sj>ared it, 1
Both were sent to the Island for a month.
Klein supposed, because it had been insured, there
was no harm to take it—the insurance would pay f
for it.
PRICE FIVE CE
| HE WILL NA* GANG HIS GAET.
BY J. E. CARPENTER.
He will na’ gang his gaet, mither,
He’s ever by my side.
He’s early an’ he’s late, mither,
I maunna bid him bide;
My spinning-wheel gaes slowly
When Jocky’s by the door;
His lot is nae so lowly.
Though we are very poor.
Yet he’ll na’ gang, &c.
Ho came through Simmer sun, mither,
He comes through Winter's snow,
Oh ! say what s to be done mither,
He plagues your lassie so.
There’s not a Hower in blossom,
The frost is in the ground;
There’s a whirlin’ in my bosom
As the weary wheel gaes round.
He will na’ gang, &c.
You’re smiling at your Kate, mither
(Oh, where can Joekv hide?);
If he’ll na’ gang his gaet, mither, :
In troth I’ll bid him bide;
He’s bought a wee bit ring, mither
(Nae let me hide my face),
An’ early in the Spring mither,,
He’ll take me Ira* the place.
He’s early an’ he’s late, mither,
He’s ever by my side;
If he’ll na’ gang his gaet, mither.
In truth I’ll bid him bide.
r
HER INHERIWE.
BY BARBARA. DEMPSTER.
CHAPTER I.
“ I MADE VP MY MIND THIS AFTERNOON.”
“ It’s such utter rubbish and nonsense I 1 1>
makes me quite angry to read all those idiotic
books, in which the heroine is always caught in
the cleanest of cotton frocks, and with the neat
' est of hair, dusting and sweeping, or making
j puddings 1 Just as if any one could ever keep
, decent when doing all this dirty work 1” And
> the speaker, who had just sunk exhausted on
, to the arm ot a chair amid a cloud of dust sha
had been raising as she swept out the littlo
> breakfast-room, brought down, with savaga,
■ energy, the head ol the broom upon the floor.
1 “ I can’t say you succeed, at any rate,” said
’ the sweeper's sister, looking critically at her
1 from the edge of a table that had been pushed
into the corner of the room. “ You aro posi
’ tively grimy I You’ve a large black smudge all
down one side of your face, and that handker
chief tied round your head makes you look like
an old-witch; and, as for your dross ”
, “That’s another of those absurd stories!
, Just as if all the gowns of heroines, as poor as
t they are made out to be, weren't worn and
i soiled, and they hadn’t to go about in the shab
. blest of old dresses, and keep their clean cot
i tons for best, like ourselves I”
I “ That reminds me that we have those things
1 to iron if we want to put them on this afternoon,”
' said Anne Irwyn, slipping, with a groan, from
: her seat on the table. “ And it’s so awfully hot
; too i”
' “One would get over that,” retorted Lyn,
who still could only see the drawbacks from
, her own side of the grievance. “ But look how
, ironing spoils your hands; and tho way heroines
, always appear in the afternoon, with white ta-
■ pering fingers, after having iroued muslin .
gowns for the whole family in the morning, is—
well, enough to make one angry I”
“ Yes,” said Anne, looking down rather rue
fully at her decidedly grimy hands. “ But it is
the people who write the books, and who know
no more about ironing and sweeping than they
‘ do about —about us !”
, “ Poverty is horrid altogether I” exclaimed
Lyn, with passionate earnestness. “Just look
at that dirty old cretonne 1 Of course, if it were
I mentioned in a book ’’—scornfully—“ the peo
ple would have it covered with some exquisitely
: pretty, though cheap chintz 1 And of course
' they would have an inexpensive, though per
fectly whole carpet, not with groat gaps that
have to be covered with mats and ”
“ Pieces of drugget that match in nothing but
their hideousness,” interrupted Anne, stooping
down to arrange one of the offending pieces that
had worked itself from under the bole.
“And the rooms would always look scrupu
lously clean, though a forge in the mews at the
back of the house was pouring thick clouds ot
blacks upon everything till it was as black as—
as ”
“Your face,” put in Anne, with a look of in
tense appreciation of the comical aspect of her
indignant sister’s face.
“Or yours, for tho matter of that!” retorted
Lyn, rising and seizing her broom again with
impatient irritation.
“It’ll be blacker still in a little while, for I
am going down into tho kitchen,” said Anne,
with placid indifference ; “ and, if I were a he
roine, I should emerge from it with hands a lit
tle floury—although tho flour would scarcely be
discernible on the brilliant whiteness of the
skin—with face even prettier than usual, owing
to the faint flush given to it by bending over the
stove, and . But, oh, there never was a he-
roine yet who had to make a dinner for three
people out of a few bones ; so the books don’t
say what frame of mind sho would be in after
such a task I” and with this parting sarcasm,
sho disappeared from the door to go down to
the kitchen.
Lyn moved about the room, replacing tho
various articles of furniture. She was pot in a
good temper, that was certain. The chairs
were put back into position with a sharp jerk ~
that betrayed a good deal of mental disturb
ance, and a vase with a few white daisies in it
was knocked over, all the Water pouring out on
to the carpet. Theie was a good deal of excuse
for poor Lyn Irwyn's ill-temper. Her mother
and sister and herself occupied a small part of
a house in an unfashionable London street,
noisy and narrow in the front, with a mews just
at the back, the low chimneys of which puffed
volumes of smoke in at their windows. Added
to this tho rooms were taken unfurnished, and
the furniture they had placed in them was grow
ing shabbier and the carpets and chintzes wear
ing out more and more as the months and years
went by, and there was no money coming in to
replace them, [while all their attendance was
what they could obtain from a young inexperi
enced girl, who came in day by day, and who,
on this particular day, did not put in an appear
ance at all; their mother was in ill-health; the
family fortunes had sunk to their lowest ebb;
the girls, one now sixteen and the other fifteen,
could not afford amusements, pretty clothing,
nor even society; so it was scarcely to be won
dered at that poor Lyn Irwyn this lovely July
morning felt extremely cross and depressed.
She finished her task, then, heated and tired,
stopped to look round.
A letter in a rack near tha mantelshelf
jJNTSe

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