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I" V\ f" KB I r IX<,:V. t J I w\ I im| Anr I IKswj H wllWrlrnf j_ - /' r< r^rzr* >.-r^r?-,xrxr>.'*>•■■•■ - •*■■’■ PUBIMD BI A. J. WIIIIAMSON’B SONS. VOL. XLL-NO. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Matter. THE NEW YORK DISPATCH, PUBLISHED AT NO. 11 FRANKFORT STREET. The NEW YORK DISPATCH is a journal of light, agree able and sparkling Literature and News. One page is de roted 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 52 50 a year TWO SUBSCRIBERS.. 400 M 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. 17 7<5. PLAYS AND PLAYERS. MR. GILLETTE’S MELODRAMA. A Reading of a Play—All Refreshment is Good—Tile Hypocrisy of Opinion— •‘Held by 1 lie Enemy”-A War Correspondent—A Dress Parade Co art Martial —Mr. Gillette as a Dramatist, Etc. BY JOHN CARBOY. I was once present during the reading of a play by an aspiring candidate for the honors and emolu ments of a playwright. On this occasion there were present at the com mencement of the somnolent service some half dozen persons, all of whom were, more or less, in their everyday life, interested in the business of the stage and its work. In this instance their interest seemed to be largely directed —at such intervals in the roadingas were occupied by the reader in mop ping the perspiration from his expansive dome of thought—to frequent experimental tests of the fluidic stimulants and solid sandwiches which ho had provided for the occasion. By the time he had finished the third act and there had occurred a protracted and vigorous as sault upon the refreshments, aforesaid, there en sued a little discussion as to the merit of the play —the author having for a few moments retired from the room. “ See hero," quoth a manager as he munched his sandwich. “ I’m blowod if I can catch on to what this pi ty is about. I mean as to the plot. There’s nothing in the act he’s just read to indicate how it’s going to end." •* Well,” put In another, an actor with the accent on the 'or, as he proceeded to attack for the fifth time the arch-enemy, which was intrenched in a black bottle labelled V. O. R., “considering that there isn t anything in the first act except exits and entrances and a lot of drawing-room furniture—a good deal of talk with a fe.w gasps of emotional stuff thrown in as a sort of cement to hold it i together—l don't see how yon could expect any thing in the third act.” “Some bright bits in tire second act—there’s a few good lines for the low comedian—and the situa tion ho has where he takes up his business at the end of the table when the news of the suicide is brought in by tho messenger, may catch the audi ence.” •‘ But the play says nothing. IT HAS NO MOTIVE. It’s talk, talk—nothing but talk so far,” said another of the party, who during the entire reading hadn’t listened to a word of it, his mind being preoccupied with the query of how he was to raise the funds to pay his last week’s board. “Well, perhaps the last act will let in a little light. You see, he may be working the thing up so that the finale will capture everybody. That’s the French method of writing melodrama.” At this moment the author entered, resumed his seat and prepared himself for the perusal of tho last act. “Now, gentlemen,” he said, “you understand it as far as I have read ?” “Perfectly,” said the manager, lighting one of the author s cigars. “Perfectly. Nothing could be clearer. So far the story is admirably told. Its movement is natural—it seems to me the drama might almost play itself. The low comedy is excel lent—that alone ought to make it catch on. The in terest is admirably worked up—the scene between the deceived and cast-off wife and the Villain is tre mendous, my Loy. Capital idea to make the hus band the Villain.” The delighted author mopped his brow vigorous ly, a flush of pride gave a roseate, brandy-plain hue to his countenance, and he opened upon his hear ers the fourth and last act. He read and mopped—mopped and read. His lis teners sat with impatience and waited for the end with that calm and rigid expression of countenance which is ever the distinguishing attribute of mar tyrs undergoing the earthly torture which they know is the prelude to their entrance into the joys of Paradise. Here was the torture, approaching its close; here, too, were the joys of Paradise—bottled and ready for use. THE PLAY WAS ENDED AT LAST, the manuscript closed, the author smiled a smile of expectancy as the martyrs gathered once more around the table. “Now, candidly,” he asked, breaking up the por tentous pause which preceded the inevitable on slaught upon the remains of the bottled Paradise — “ candidly, what is the verdict ? Speak out; if you think it is bad, say so—l’ll like you all the better for your honesty of opinion.” “Bad!” exclaimed the manager, the actor and another of the group ta chorus, as they held up their glasses with their gaze concentrated upon the tipple—“ Bad—no, it is good. It will catchon in any city in the country I” Whether they meant the whisky or the play has never been as yet satisfactorily explained, for short ly after this, the bottles being empty, the cigars gone and the sandwiches among the things that were, the party disbanded and went away, each to fulfill his daily mission. Now, then, here was a play, read in the usual way, listened to after the customary fashion, and a verdict rendered in the regular stereotyped form. Of course IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE PRESCRIBED FORMULA the decision was in favor of the play, Under the circumstances could it have been otherwise? You drink a man’s whiskey, you partake of his sandwiches and you smoke his cigars. You are his invited guest. Now why should you kick because he bores you with the reading of his play when he offers you such sweet and savory recompense ? A party thus invited would be less than human and more than ungrateful to crush the ambitious hope of its host. More especially when the host is, aside from his propensity to write plays, one of the best of fellows socially, and at all times ready and willing to be of service to the great guild to which he is appealing for a full and honored membership ■ I was reminded of this “little gathering” con vened to hear the reading of a play by the general and effusive outburst of approbation with which the esteemed and learned critics of the.daily press greeted the performance of Mr. William Gillette’s s-coucl effort as a dramatist—a work which bears the title of “ Held by the Enemy.” Mr. Gillette has the advantage of being not only a.«cholar, but a gentleman possessing more than an ordinary share of natural ability. He is by no meatt-s an intellectual phenomenon ; he makes no claims that he should be regarded as tho rival of fiardou or the superior in dramatic instinct of the author of “Jim. the Penman.” Mr. Gillette has borne bis honors meekly ; he has a reputation in past seasons as an actor ju th? line of eccentric comedy, and his first effort as play wright—and produced at the Madison Square Thea tre under the reign of the Mallorys, and entitled " The Professor”—had a long and prosperous run not only on that stage but throughout the succeed ing season on the road. HIS ABILITY AS A WRITER OF FARCE MATTER had conspicuous display in a version which* he brought forward of “The Private Secretary.” In this he impersonated, with spirit and undoubted appreciation of humor of the broader type, the lead - ing character. His work both as a comedian and as an author has, therefore, been the more grateful to the critical sense and the public estimate in that hie success has not brought to him that arrogance of state and vanity of disposition which have been the bane, professionally, of even such talented and greatly gifted comedians as Rooney, Mansfield, and Alvin Joslin Davis. He Is not to be considered for an instant as hold ing place on their plaqp. In this more pretentious dramatic work—“ Held by the Enemy,” Mr, Gillette has shown himself to be as capable tor serious as for lighter and more insubstantial effort. He has boldly entered the field in which the au thors of “In the Ranks,” “Youth,” “Her Attone ment,” “The Blue and the Gray,” and ••Rosedale” have reaped something of a harvest. He has brought forth a Military drama In which, while there are no battle tableaux, no regiments of troops bivouacing on the stage or marching before the audience and preceded by the usual theatric fish-horn brass band. There are no bombs exploding in mid-air, and such desultory sounds of distant cannonading heard which are rendered pleasant to the ear by the use of the thunder-drums. Only in the first act is heard the fearsome discharge of musketry. GRIM-VISAGED WAR in its moat realistic and repulsive condition is not permitted to horrify the sense and fright the souls of an audience which in this theatre has so long been accustomed only to witness the peaceful scenes of domestic life. From “Hazel Kirke” and “The Professor ” to the shouts and carnage-blood and gun-powder diablerie of a wild war drama would be too great a stride. Wisely, therefore, Mr. Gillette has in his military drama omitted the smoke of battlo.-and the bullet riddled flags and gore-stained trophies and the wind-up of the orchestral “ Star Spangled Banner ” are conspicuous by their timely absence. The motive of the drama, or rather the motive most apparent in its construction, is to “catch” the audience by effects which do not seem to be the necessary outcome of the relation of the story, but that having been first created—as if they were separate suggestions of the author’s imagination— the story was afterward fashioned to fit them. Or, in other words, the tailor must first find his customer before he can make a suit to order. The drama is, happily, thoroughly American in tone, color and conduct; the oharacters are satu rated with Americanism in language, action and in the expression of the varying passions of which they are supposed to be the exponents as the work progresses to its end. THERE 13 AN AMERICAN TINGE | in its continuous adherence to the theatric in its situations rather than the purely dramatic. In the prison scene where the spy is discovered to be dead upon the bier, there is the only instance in which the situation of the characters and the intent of the dialogue become almost purely dramatic. In a dramatic sense that is the moat effective and im pressive event of the play. The ingenious device the author has introduced in this scene, was, no doubt, theatric in its conception; but the surround ings and the gradual approach of the dialogue to the revelation of the climax, the unexpected nature of that climax divest it of all suggestion of theatric trickery and leave only the effect upon the specta tors’ mind that is made by an approach to the high est form of dramatic effort. The first act is essentially theatric; the scene be tween the Union officer and the heroine, in which he makes known his love, is little else than con - volitional in ite expression, and her refusal then to accept him as her suitor seems to have little other basis than Mr. Gillette’s desire to pad up the scene with an emotional episode as a foretaste to the ex tremely theatric and highly seasoned sensational entrance and fall upon the stage of the wounded spy. In this act occasion is naturally made for the in troduction of THE COMEDY CHARACTER, an artist and “ war correspondent,” representing Frank Leslie’s Illustra'ed Newspaper. He is an ob trusive, good-natured exaggeration. His like is not to be found anywhere in the guild of artists—save perhaps in the one distinctive trait of being faith ful to the interests of his employer. His extrava gance of method, both in quest of his subjects for his pencil and in his love making, are aptly colored and made welcome by the humor and brightness of his share in the dialogue. In the second act Mr. Gillette becomes profound ly military through the medium of the representa. tion of a drum-head court-martial. Theatrically it is effective. In the dramatic sense it is absurd. No court-martial in the War of the Rebellion on the field was ever held in the manner and form of the illustration given in this play. And, as in this court martial, so throughout the play, with all the military personages involved in its action, Mr. Gillette seems to have labored under the impression that at the front, and in camp, and therefore in fact at all times in or out of battle fields, duty was merely a dress parade. Every offi cer through all the list, from the lieutenant of a company up to the commanding general of a divi sion, was strutting around in a snick span new uniform, with polished boots, bright and shining brass buttons and irreproachable linen. At this d-rum-head court martial there they are —all the officers, from the general down, arrayed in magnificent new uniforms—sitting in judgment upon the offences of the rebel spy. The setting of the stage representing the covered embrasure of a fort was correct enough, but when the officer in the cast, known as the Surgeon, is placed here as the Judge Advocate, the absurdity becomes painfully apparent, so far as realism and adherence to fact are concerned. He it is who acts as the prosecutor, who not only conducts the direct but the cross-examination. For a fact, a court martial so constituted, would very speedily find its decisions come to naught. A perusal of the laws governing the convening and the conduct of MILITARY COURT MARTIAL IN TIME OF WAR, and when its trials are to be held upon the field will suggest to tbe reader that Mr. Gillette in “ Held by the Enemy” has not displayed any extensive knowledge of military matters. Above all—that under no circumstances would a young woman be permitted to wander out of her house—guarded, as it is, by a line of sentries—and make her way in the middle of the night to the tent of the Colonel, nor would he receive her under such circumstances, no matter what her relations to him might be. alone in his tent, into which offi cers and orderlies were constantly coming with messages. Nor were the officers on duty in the field arrayed as if for dress parade and inspection; in fact, they were, as to dress, a very shabby and un clean, dust-begrimed and unkempt looking lot, and save by the worn and tarnished strap fastened upon the shoulder of the blouse, they were scarcely distinguishable from the privates. To pre sent their duplicates upon the stage in this shabby and unclean condition would be too near an approach torealism.no doubt. But certainly the line in this representation might be drawn this side of the blaze of brass buttons and gold lace, polished boots and fresh laundried linen, and still not offend tho delicate sense of any audience. Otherwise than in the instances to which I have alluded, Mr. Gillette’s “ Held by the Enemy ” is well constructed, tbe dialogue is direct and clear in expression, and its diction is in good English. It is, in fact, the work of a man of intelligence and re- ”NEW YORK."^SUNDAY,''AUGUST 29, 1886. sources than the ordinary run—as writers go. The errors he has made can be easily remedied. But in whatever he may do in constructing a melodrama he should never, in striving to increase the strength of its effects, underestimate the intel ligence of his audiences, and fancy that probability can be disregarded and the realities of life, the habits, manners and customs of the time and peo ple of whom he writes ignored without protest. fLlLlllW IIIIIIIHIII Illi IIIIIIM ■■■ mill «i fiIUBBimIILUOI. One of the Cleverest Robberies on Record. How the Paris Banker was Fooled and Cleaned Out. The Device of a Young Secretary and his Mother. The Faint Outlines of a Few Figures Used as a Clew to Crime. Monsieur Bouloy was a broker and banker on the Rue St. Augustin, Paris. On February 5, 1860, an •Iderly lady, in widow's weeds, accompanied by a young man about twenty years of age, who walked with a crutch and a stick, alighted from a carriage at tho door of Monsieur Bouloy’s office, which they entered. The lady, who was shown into the private room of the principal, introduced herself as the widow of a Monsieur Duperre and the young man as her son, Henri. She assisted the young man to sit down in a comfortable position, saying: “My son, monsieur, has the misfortune to be lame, owing to an injury which he received when a child.” Monsieur Bouloy expressed regret and asked the lady how he could serve her. “My late husband,” she replied, “left some valu able stocks and I am anxious to dispose of a part of them. My physician, Dr. Tocanier. recommended me to apply to you as a gentleman of honor and one well acquainted with the best methods of transacting such business, and was good enough to send us hither in his coupe.” Monsieur Bouloy bowed and assured the lady that it would give him great pleasure to aid her in any way in his power. He glanced through the window and recognized the handsome bays and the livery of the famous physician. “These,” she continued, drawing forth a large envelope from her reticule, “are what I thought of parting with at the present.” She handed him the envelope, and he opened it, drew forth the stock, and oxamined it. “I regret to say, madame,” he said, “that at present thia stock is selling far below par. I may inform you, however, that it is liable at any time to take a rise.” “That is just it, monsieur,” she said; “and I de sire you to keep it by you uutfi such time as you think it judicious to sell.” AN INTERRUPTION. After some further talk, Monsieur Bouloy opened his safe and placed the envelope with its contents therein. While he was so occupied the young man gave a groan. The lady arose hastily and cried: “ My God ! another of those dreadful fits !” Monsieur Bouloy turned and saw the lady with her arm around the neck of the youth, gazing with tearful eyes and an expression of anguish upon her countenance, at the closed'eyes and drawn face of hor son. “Ah, it is very sad, madame,” he said. “ What ean I do for you ?” “Oh, monsieur,” was the answer, “if you could procure him a glass of brandy, it would speedily restore him.” “ I will do so, with pleasure,” he replied, and quitted the room, going into the adjoining one and directing a young clerk to get the restorative. Then he returned to the private apartment and said that he had dispatched an employee for the brandy. It was speedily brought, and the young man revived soon after a few drops had been swallowed. Then, with many thanks and expressions of gratitude, the widow and her son withdrew, being accompan ied to the carriage by Monsieur Bouloy. Monsieur Bouloy returned to his sanctum, locked his safe, and attended to further business. MISSING ONE MILLION FRANCS. Next day, a Monsieur Piat visited Monsieur Bou loy, and the latter gentleman, knowing that the former had a short time before held a large amount of the stock which Madame Duperre desired to sell, asked his visitor what be had done with it. “ Why,” said he, “ I hold it still, and should be glad to have more of it.” Then Monsieur Bouloy said he had a large quan tity of it to sell, and Monsieur Piat asked to see it. Monsieur Bouloy opened his safe and took out tbe envelope. On opening it, his astonishment was great when he found inside a lot of blank scrip. “ What means this ?” he exclaimed, as he exam ined the worthless stuff* Then he turned toward tbe sa:e and began nervously to remove its con tents. ‘I am robbed!” he cried. “Robbed of over a million francs in notes of the bank of France. I was directed by General to realize for him on valuable securities, and keep the proceeds at hand to give to him at a moment’s iTotice, and I am robbed of all. My God, lam a ruined man 1" ■•Have you no clew to the thief ?” asked Monsieur Piat. “ I am dazed—l cannot think,” was the answer. •• I will at once consult the police. I beg that you will say nothing of the affair to any ene.” A DETECTIVE'S THEORY. Monsieur Piat pledged his word readily, and the gentlemen quitted the office together, Monsieur Bouloy going straight to the prefecture of police and laying his statement before the chief of police. Roquepine, a famous detective, was called in, and all the facts were disclosed to him. “ It is all very clear to me, monsieur,” said the detective. “ Madame Duperre and her son are tbe thieves, without doubt. Tho fainting fit was a ruse, ar.d the request for brandy was made with the hope that you would quit the room and leave them aloue with the safe. The groan and the fit came in just as you had placed the envelope in the sate and Le ore you had time to secure it. As soon as you left the room another envelope was substi tuted for the one in the safe, and the package of money was abstracted.” •* But how did the thieves know the money was there ?” asked Monsieur Bouloy. “ At present that is hard to say, but by and by the question may be answered,” the detective re plied. ‘•But they came in Dr. Tocanier’s coupe,” said the broker,” and said they were recommended to me by him. He is my physician, and an intimate triend.” “That may also be explained in time,” the de tective said. After further talk. Monsieur Bouloy departed and soon after his arrival at his office he was joined by Roquepine. The latter examined the sale, listened anew to the recital of all the facts and departed. He first went to the residence of Dr. Tocanier, and found that gentleman at homo. As he related to the doctor the circumstances of the visit ot the lady calling herseif Madame Duperre, and the young man whom she represented as her son, to the office of Monsieur Bouloy, and the subsequent disappear ance of the money from the sate, the doctor's aston ishment grew beyond description. DR. TOCANIER’S EXPERIENCE. “ I had never seen the lady or the young man be fore,” he said. “She represented that she had been recommended to consult me as to the fainting epeLs to which she said the young mau was subject, and after questioning him, I prescribed for him. They were about to take their leave, when tbe young man was seized with a fit. The lady seemed almost dis tracted with grief and appeared most anxious to get her sou home. ■•‘However shall I get him home?” she ex claimed; ‘for, to tell you the truth, doctor, I am too poor to hire a vehicle.’ “ I offered to call one for her, but she peremp torily declined, and they started to walk. The young man appeared to me to be too weak to crawl along, and as they reached the sidewalk the lady had all that she could do to support him. My coupe was at the door, and what could I do less than place it at their disposal? It was accepted with thanks, ami, out of delicacy, I told the coachman to receive his instructions from tbe lady. ’ Dr. Tocanier summoned the coachman and ques tioned him. He said that he was first directed to drive to the Rue de la Paix, and that the lady re quested him to take them to the office of Monsieur Bouloy, on the Rue St. Augustin. There they alighted, and he was asked to await their return. As be had been directed by Dr. Tocanier to receive his instruct.ons from the lady, he thought that it was all right. When they returned to the coupe, the lady directed him to drive to the Rue d’Ehg hien. soon alter turning into which they alighted and he saw them no more. ROQUEPiNE’S MEDITATIONS. Tho detective was more puzzled than ever. These persons had evidently been cleverly disguised, and more t..an likely tho lameness of the young man had been assumed ler the occasion. They were not likely to go in company again, and he might search for months in a vain effort to come across either one of them. Then another thought struck him. The stock which bad deceive l Monsieur Bouloy was probably couuterleit. Were this l.tuy and this young man Starless antr §uhpnhnt. connected with a gang of forgers ? Supposing they were, in what direction must he look for the out laws ?||One thing tbe detective thought was certain, namely, that by some means they must have known ttyit valuable property was in the safe.' Another thing seemed equally clear, namely, that they must have known thejocation of the safe. Roquepine made his way once more to the office of Monsieur Bouloy and aske4 to see the envelope and its contents. He examined these mementoes of a crime with great eare, and he mado a dis covery. Inside the flap of the envelope were a few figures in pencil. They were very faidistinct,.but, with the use of a powerful lens, Roquepine made them out thus: 17,400 frs. 270 17,670 Now, the question was what did these figures signify? To what did they relate? The detective copied them, took them away with him, meditated over them far into the night. He reached no sat isfactory conclusion. Next day he went to see Mon sieur Bouloy. “ Monsieur,” he said, “what do you take these figures to signify ?” “It is very hard to say,” was the reply. “All that strikes me is that it is an addition of 17,400 francs and 270 francs.” “Under what circumstances would you add figures together in that way ?” the detective asked. Monsieur Bouloy smiled. “Ah,” 4 said he, “how could I tell? Under any when I wished to reach the amount of two numbers.” “ When do you do it most frequently, Monsieur?” was the next qeestion. “When I am adding the interest to the princi pal,” was the answer. A CLEW. “That is it!” exclaimed tho officer. “Now I have it. One or the other of these parties had 17,400 francs on deposit somewhere, and, on drawing it,' they put the figures down and. added the interest. I have a clew at last.” Roquepine went on a tour of the banks where deposits were usually made. On this day in tbe Rue de Maubeuge he found a small private bank the cashier of which found that on January 26, 1860, a Madame Fourcy had drawn from the bank the sum of 17,400 francs, leaving on deposit 1,237 francs, and that the interest due to her on the whole deposit was 270 francs and some centimes. “ Where did Madame Fourcy reside ?” ssked tho officer. “ Her address as given to us is No. , rue de Laval,” was the answer. “Did she usually eome herself to the bank ?” asked the detective. “ She came herself, as a rule, but she was, some times accompanied by a young man,” the cashier replied. “Many thanks, monsieur,” said Roquepine. and departed. As he went along the street he said to himself, “ Now I think I am on the track.” He went to the Prefecture of Police and reported progress. Accompanied by another officer he vis ited the rue de Laval, No. . Madame Fourcy’s residence was a respectable, well-kept dwelling. Roquepine rang the bell. Was Madame Fourcy at home ? No. Was tho young gentleman at home ? No. When was either expected ? The domestic did not know, but thought both would be in soon. IN THE TOILS. The detectives watched, one at each end of tbe block. Presently a well-dressed good-looking young man, dressed very becomingly, came along, Roque pwie strolled after him. He went up the steps of No. . As he entered the door with a latch-key, Roquepine was upon him and pinnod him, with a revolver to his head. “You are mv prisoner,” said the officer, “offer no resistance, or it will be worse for you.” He offered none—-for a very good reason. He was so utterly amazed and taken aback that he became as limp as a wet rag. Roquepine put handcuffs on him and led him into a side room, closing the door so as to leave it slightly ajar. In a few seconds a ring came to the bell. The domestic’s footsteps were heard and the door was opened. The next in stant there was a scuffle, and Roquepine knew that' his assistant was doing bis part of the work. But a prolonged struggle and many curses in a woman's voice were heard before an elderly woman, elegant ly dressed, was forced against the door and into the parlor, the officer grasping her by the wrist, and preventing her, as far as he was able, from biting him. The two prisoners were made to sit down, and, while his assistant stood guard over them, Roque pine searched the bouse. The domestic, who appeared to be an innocent young person, was greatly alarmed at what had happened, and was hastily preparing to quit the house.. Roquepine marched her into the parlor and placed her in charge of tbe officer on duty there. Papers were seized, and Roquepine, calling a cab, conducted the woman and the young man to the Prefecture of Police, leaving the other officer in care of the house. MOTHER AND SON. Investigation showed that the young man, whose name was Frederick, was in reality the sou of the woman known as Madame Fourcy. He had been for some time in tbe employ of General as private secretary, and had thus become acquainted with the fact that Monsieur Bouloy had converted the general’s stocks into money, and that it was in the safe awaiting the general’s pleasure. As soon aa tbe letter informing the general of the fact came into young Fourcy s hands, he conceived tho idea of getting possession of the money. How to do it, however, was the difficulty. As a preliminary meas ure end to prolong the time for consideration, he procured and introduced into the usual noonday cup of coffee of the general a drop of a powerful drug, which brought on a sudden and painful at tack of dysentery. Then the young man’s active brain concocted a scheme which his mother, a very unscrupulous woman, readily undertook to ala him in executing. HOW IT WAS DONE. The following day the general was too ill to go out. and, at his own suggestion, tho secretary visited Monsieur Bouloy to inform him that Hie general would call upon him probably tho next day or the day after. He carefully noted the position of the safe. Then he immediately went home, and, as suming tbe disguise which he had prepared, de parted with bis mother, also thoroughly disguised, to carry out the plot which they had devised. The fact that Dr. Taconier was the general's medical at tendant and possessed of an elegant coupe, suggest ed to young Fourcy.the first part of the programme. For a while he was puzzled how to find a pretext lor a visit to Monsieur Bouloy. Then he boldly con ceived the idea of borrowing some stock belonging to the general and pretending that the visit was made for the purpose of disposing of it. If he had failed to get possession of the money in tbe safe, his mother was to change her mind as to the sale of the stock and get it back. But neither of them ever had any misgiving as to the success of their plot. The stock belonging to tbe general was returned. Tho money was recovered, and mother and son convicted of the robbery, sentenced to penal servi tude, the one for three years and the other for five. Nihilist Reminiscences. AN STEPNIAK. VERY GKIM HUMOR. The following account of an interview with Sbep niak appeared recently in the columns of a French newspaper, which introduces the famous Russian Nihilist as a man of about thirty years of age, with the figure of an athlete and an enormous head: “ His rough beard grows downward from his ears, overrunning his cheeks without, however, vailing the mouth—the terrible, blood-red month of a bar barian. But notwithstanding these dreadful de tails,” says the interviewer, “there is something in the face of Stepniak which gives it an almost infan tile expression ot kindness, and which reminds one of the gentleness of great, powerful beasts. “Stepniak's muscular powers, carefully preserved by constant gymnastic exercises, are indeed alto gether extraordinary. I have seen him take up a chair on which a man of middle bight was sitting, and lift it with one hand from the ground and on a table. To this enormous physical vigor corre sponds the almost monstrous development of cer tain intellectual faculties—those, for instance, of the memory and imagination. He speaks every European language without difficulty, and his knowledge of history and political economy is con siderable. I have never, before I heard Stepniak, felt the almost magnetic fascination which this apostle exercises on individuals and on multi tudes.” On a visit to the country scat of M. A. Daudet, where the French journalist took his “terrible com rade.” the latter told the following gruesome anec dotes apropos of two of the most terrible crimes committed by the Nihilists. •• General Mezentzeff,” said Stopnaik, “ was as sassinated by one of my friends, one morning when he was walking with a functionary in the Nevski Prospect, which was then rather deserted. My friend rushed upon the general, stabbed him with a knife and jumped into a carnage which was wait ing for him. As you may imagine, the comrade who drove lashed the horse furiously, for rapid flight was the only alternative to being hung. Nevertheless, my friend, the assassin, took the whip out of the driver's hand, saying : ‘ Don’t lash him; the animal is doing what he can.’ And my friend was afterward pleased with himself for having felt this pity, for he said to himself : “After all, I am not altogether a bad fellow.’ ” When the “ execution ” of Emperor Alexander 11. had been decided upon, two men armed with ex plosive bombs were placed near the bridge where tbe Emperor must pass, with instructions to throw them into the carriage as soon as the opportunity offered. The two assassins were placed at a dis tance of about fifteen yards. The first bomb fell down under the horses’ hoofs, and, upsetting the carriage, threw the Emperor on his face into the snow. The second assassin, forgetting tho object which he had in view and seized by pity, rushed together with the soldiers for the rescue of the Czar, and was arrested with his bomb under his arm while helping to lift the wounded mau from the ground. SOCIETY’S SOILED DOVES. Women with Smirched Names who Queen It in Upper Tendom. A. QUEER MORAL COJDE. Accommodating Husbands and Gener ous Protectors. “THE FRIEND OF THE HOUSE.” purson IjV big luck. ••What sort of a time have you girls been having here ?” asked a new arrival the other day of a group of Summer residents on the verandah of the Grand Union Hotel in Saratoga. The persons to whom the query was addressed were girls of from eighteen to twenty-four, all stylish and independent in their manner. They were evidently of the elect, and they let you know it. They looked at each other when tbe question was put to them, and then laughed in concert. The questioner, evidently net tled, demanded sharply: “ Well, what is the matter? Is there anything so ridiculous in a good-natured question ?” “Not at all, dear,” replied one of the girls, sooth ingly. “Don’t get huffy now. But have any of us ever had a scandal ?” “ My gracious 1” gasped the visitor. “Got a divorce, run away with a valet, or done anything more or less disgraceful ?” The visitor bridled, and wanted to know if her friends wished to insult her. She had never said or suggested anything of the kind and never thought of doing it. “Of course you didn’t, dear,” replied the spokes man of the girls, sweetly. “But you asked us if we had had a good time, or words to that effect, and you ought to know that a woman who hasn’t dis graced herself in some way or other nowadays never has any sort of a time at all in society. We've just been playing beaus to ourselves and all the frisky women at the Springs have had mere beaus than they knew what to do with.” THE CHARM OF NOTORIETY. This statement illustrates a very curious feature of what we call by courtesy polite society in Amer ica. At present our upper circles are enjoying a reign of notoriety. The time was when a woman with a smirch upon her name was a social outcast. Even innocent women suffered for circumstaacos entirely beyond their con trol, and guilty women were socially doomed. The most popular leaders in the feminine circles of so ciety to-day are of the very class that formerly suf fered this taboo. Certain of the straighter-laced hold out against them and scorn their favors and their hospitalities. But the bulk of uppertendom follows in their train and does them polite rover- The most prominent and well-attended belle at Saratoga to-day is, for instance, the cast-off wife of a man yet living. She is young; indeed, he re not yet old. They were married less than ten years ago with great pomp. He took her lor her beauty and she accepted him for his money. The result of this bar gain was not unnatural. She got his money and her beauty became the property of some one else. The facts were common scandal within three years after the wedding. The name of a millionaire now dead was entangled with her’s. Society told queer stories of a lovely little house near Central Park, whore a complete staff of servants was kept up for the couple of meetings a week between the million, aire and the faithless wife. The husband’s friends finally revealed the facts to him. He answered coolly: «■ “I know all about it. I have seen her go to the house and seen him follow her.” “ Well,” said his friends, “ what are you going to do about it ?” “Nothing,” he replied. “I’ve been a fool and I’m being paid for it. If I make any exposure there will be a dreadful scandal. If I keep quiet, she will be too proud to give herself away. So I’m going to keep quiet and let her slide easy.” A polite separation followed. She went to live in the house near Central Park, which tbe millionaire presented to her. There she held court to other ad mirers while the millionaire was away. There, now that the millionaire is dead, she holds court still. The husband goes his way ; she goes hers ; and her dinners are so good and her entertainments so pleasant that society goes it blind and forgives her her sins for the pleasure she sweetens them with. A QUEER CONJUGAL COMPACT. The sweetest womin at Long Branch is another illustration of the same fact, bhe is a superb crea ture—a Venus in her physical and an Aspasia in her mental charms. The very foremost leaders of society at the Branch have been displaced by her. The men hunt her in droves and the girls flutter about her in flocks. The verdict of the former is “she's the finest woman in America," and of the latter “she’s.just the dearest soul in the world.” Like the faithless wife of Saratoga, she goes every where. All doors are open to her. Even exclu sive Lenox welcomes her when the early Fail makes the Berkshire Hills fashionable. And for all that everyone knows who she is. She is the widow of a man whom nobody knew except that.he was “something in trade.” She lived on a polite footing with him. and all the time his prerogative was enjoyed by a jovial Wall street man, now no more. The Wall-street man made her a rich womau’in her own right, by put ting her into a number of fortunate speculations. He was a constant guest at her husband’s house, and en the best of terms with him. One day, at breakfast, as the story goes, the husband laid his paper down, as if he had suddenly arrived at a reso lution, and said : “My dear, don’t you think you are going it rather fast?” She replied promptly and without moving a muscle — •■ I know I am.” “People are commencing to talk,” said he. “People wilj always talk,” she answered. ••But it isn’t pleasant ” he remonstrated. “Well,” she said coolly, “if you object to it, get a divorce. I’ll furnish you with evidence.” He would not do that. There would be too much scandal. But he would take a trip around the world for his health, and she could have things her own way. Accordingly he went off, and he never came back. He died in Paris, In the bath room of the house of a famous demi-mondaine with whom be had become entangled. The wile wore black and the Wall-street man put a mourning band on his hat. As long as the Wall-street man remained alive, society only gave this erring sister its left band to shake. But as soon as he passed away, it took her back into the fold, and there she now is, queening it over the lambs, and finding them submissive to her sway. SOCIETYS’ EASY MORALITY. The theory upon which society bases its conduct in these typical instances is curious and signifi cant. While their lovers were £live it refused its cordial acceptance to the belie of Saratoga and the belle of Long Branch. It met them at balls and operas, and public places generally, and said “how dy’e do ” politely enough. But the shadows of the millionaire and the Wall street man stood between it and the favorites of these magnates. As soon as the shadows were ghosts, however, all was well, and every door was open that had hitherto been closed. Other men have taken their places, and their offenses continue the same, but society does not mind that. It did not object so much to the looseness of its idols, as it did to tbe fact that the original sharers of it were still upon the surface. The scandal was too new, that was all. Here is an illustration. Some years ago a very rich man of this city had a friend who had a very beautiful wife. The friend was poor and the wife extravagant. So the rich man, who was a bachelor and a sport, got rid of the husband by putting him in lucrative employment, and took care of the wile while he was away. A divorce followed in due course, and the rich man married his friend’s wife. Society refused her. She had been in it once, but could not. get back. Time sped. The discarded husband married again, and the spor.t ran Iris course and died. He was hardly underground when his widow was back in the social whirl, gayer and more splendid than she had ever been. Her old friends greeted her with the warmest welcome. Her sin was buried with the partner of it. She was a soiled dove purged by death of all stain. In one leap she gained that dazzling eminence the society papers accord a woman when they christen her a reigning belle. At one of the swell balls last Win ter she met her first husband. “How well you are looking,” she said. “I hear your wife is charming.” “ She is,” he replied. “Bring her to dinner next Tuesday,” she sajd, “ and let me judge for myself.” He accepted the invitation and the three, if ap pearances can be relied on, are now the best of friends. “THE FRIEND OF THE HOUSE.” It is a common practice in France for married women in society to conduct personal flirtations with men who are openly regarded as rivals of their husbands. Many of these flirtations are platonic and innocent enough, but many more ot them are serious matters. Marriage in France among the fashionables is rarely anything but a matter*of interest. It is the joining of two fortunes, and after the honeymoon is over the husband goes back to his mistresses and the wife calls in L’ami du maison. to solace her neglected solitude. So tbe double li!e of the household drifts along pleasantly enough, as long as good temper prevails. Now and then jealousy gets the upper hand and there is a row. But as a rule the genteelest is observed on both sides. OFFICE, NO. 11 FRANKFORT ST. This practice is now common in England. While I the men of fashion cast their favors to the nymphs of the green-room, or the sirens of St. John’s Wood, the women open their boudoir doors to admirers who appreciate them better than their husbands, or at least profess to do so. The scandals of English society are well kept as a rule. Such cases as that of Sir Charles Dilke are anjjizing only when they become public. There ard3iundreds of sinners in English high life quite as bad as Sir Charles, who have not been legally found out. The fashion of having a '• Friend of the House” as an attendant on its mistress, has of recent years been grafted on American society. It seams to have been introduced by married women returning from abroad. At first the •• Friend of the House” was a foreigner, some fellow with a title to obscure his personal worthlessness or insignificance. Now the muster roll includes plenty of natives. In all the resorts the "Friend of the House” is prevalent. He has priveleges denied the husband, for thb formalities of society hamper congugal life are dispensed with for him. The husbands, moreover, accept him as a matter of course. You ask Jones: ” How is it you’re not at Newport with Mrs. J?” '•Can’t get away,” he answers. '• But Mrs. J. must have her hands full enter taining alone,” you say in your innocenee. •'Oh! she isn’t alone,” replies Jones briskly, " Pupson is there to help her. He’s a deal fonder of that sort of thing than I am. you know.” Pupson is I’ami du maison, and every frisky ma tron in society now carries a Pupson in her train. He is as essential as her pug or her maid. OUR FRISKY MATRONS. The term frisky matron is picturesquely and eloquently descriptive of these speckled peaches of the social world. It is English. It applied origin ally to a class of wives common in London society who, while being no longer girls, aped the airiness and recklessness of younger people than them selves. Gradually it came to apply to all married women who manifested an inclination to kick over the traces of conventionality. The frisky matron was, in short, a married had the free dom of a widow and the levity of a sohool girl. The frisky matron in England has her admirers by the score, and picks her pets from among them. She is a female Sir Charles Dilke. Now and then she gets before the public just as Gladys, Lady Lonsdale, did when her husband divorced her. She had a list of amours as long as your'arm. Another frisky matron now in trouble used to be Miss Blood. It was she who on her marriage was erroneously advertised as the daughter of Victoria Woodhull. In his complaint in the divorce court her husband. Lord Colin Campbell, specifies the names of four Pupsons, and produces evidence of the favor she accorded them. Our own frisky matrons have not, possibly, got as far ahead as their English sisters, but give them time ana they will get there, without fail. The fashion is new with us, comparatively speaking, and perhaps our Pupsons are not as attractive as those in England. Bio More Black Eyes. Gentlemen who Strike Against Doors, Have a Stick Fly Against Their Eyes, etc., Now Happy. HOW BATTLE MAKES ARE CONCEALED. Pugilists are not the only men to have their eyes blackened. A drunken patient in a doctor’s office, a discontented client in a lawyer’s, a man who has been written up in the editorial department of a newspaper, may dispense black eyes wdth startling suddenness. In fact the most inoffensive and un pugnacious man in existence may have the rim of his ocular section darkened at any moment. There fore, the man who discovers and places at the world’s disposal a method for concealing the dark ness under and around the eye which tells of a more or less violent assault is entitled to the gratitude of his race. Such a man, a well-known doctor of this city, was found by a reporter yesterday afternoon. The doctor was not at all disposed to make any mystery about his methods. •• I have treated,” said he, "as many as twenty five persons recently for this distressing affliction. All of them were anxious, of course, to get rid of the signs of the conflict, and in one or two cases it was of vital importance that the blackness of the bruise should be obliterated at once. That set mo thinking, and as I possess a sort of liking for paint ing in oils, I called in my knowledge in that line to aid me. Now, 11l show you practically what, as a result, my treatment is.” HOW IT IS DONE. Then the Doctor brought out a little wooden box full of oil color tubes. Out of a score of tubes be selected four. They contained silver white, burnt umber, Naples yellow, and vermillion. From each tube he squeezed out a little of the paint upon the back of bis left hand, “ I find,” said he, •* that the back of my hand is the best palette I can have lor this work. Every hand has, especially when it is partially sunburnt, a number of distinct tones of color, and I find that they assist me in forming my tints for laying on the bruised portion of the face of my patient.” First he took, as he proceeded to demonstrate his process, a little from the dab of burnt umber and spread it over a two-inch section of his hand. This, he said, was the ground he found it best to use. Upon this dark ground he laid a touch of vermil lion, then a little white, and finally a mere sugges tion of yellow. A deliciously soft feminine flesh tint was the result after be had combined the col ora with his forefinger. With a littio more of the burnt umber he made the complexion of the flesh assume a bright brunette tinge, and then with the admixture of some of the white paint reversed it to a light blonde. " I can with these four simple colors,” he said, *• catch the exact shade of any face. I have tried it often enough now to bo sure.” There was however, a certain unnatural gloss over the painted flesh which the reporter noticed. This, the doctor stated, could be removed by lightly sprinkling over the surface powdered magnesia, and then removing it gently with a brush. HAS SAVED MANY. And this is the process which has saved many a man from the disgrace of a black eye before his friends and relations. It may be added that the doctor who has achieved this triumph of mind over matter has found that ordinary oil paints are pre ferable for this particular uso to the greaso paints which are commonly used by actors in their make up for the stage. It would appear possible that so desirable a de vice had at least one drawback, and the doctor was asked if the painting of a blackened eye. in the way described, was not likely to retard nature’s healing process. The doctor replied : •• My experience has been that the tinting of the lead paints really assists nature. I have found that the eyes which I have painted have re covered faster than those I have not. The lead cer tainly does no harm. Another curious fact is that not every person can paint an eye satisfactorily. I have shown a patient exactly what paints to use, and in what proportions they were to be mixed, but he has only succeeded in making himself look like an Indian with his war paint on. •*I think that the person who does the painting should be, in a modest way, an artist who knows how to produce a flesh tint. The burnt umber, I have discovered, makes the best ground work upon which to produce the lighter effects afterward. "There are little depressions oiten enough in the skin of the face, and these I can imitate by dabbing the coat of paint with a dry brush. If there are prominent veins under the patient’s eyes, a little blue laid on delicately in flue lines will bring them out satisfactorily. I have encountered all sorts of complexions, but never yet one that baffled me. My friends may rely upon me to help them conceal their battle marks—and I’ll paint them only for love, too—but the world at large must go about with its eyes blackened until doctors in general learn how to paint.” Cuban Women. AN INTENSE ADMIRER OF THEIR FEET. (From the Philadelphia News.) In the physical beauty of the Cuban woman the commanding features are the feet, whose daintiness and symmetry are marvelous ; the supple, willowy grace of movement of person, the exquisitely modeled form and the eyes, which never lose their lustre and glow. Cuban women wear shoes no larger than the No. 1 size for women in the States. Nor is this diminutive size the result of any pinching process. She is born that way. She is the most graceful woman on her feet, in her walks and carriage, in the promenade or in the dance, you ever saw. Of her form, it is perfection. Nine women out of ten you meet are models of symmetry. There is a greater delicacy in line and proportion. They do not so torture their persons or themselves. The Cuban woman’s face may ba said to be whol ly interesting and lovely rather than wholly beau tiful. Its beauty is in its expression rather than in repose. This face is of the Latin mold, oval and with a delicate protruding of a pretty and shapely chin. Her complexion is warm, creamy, with no carnation in her cheeks. But her mouth, large, mobile, tremulous, with just a suggestion of pathos in the slight drawing down at the corners, has lips so red and ripe that her ever-perfect teeth dazzle in brilliant contrast. Her hair is of that lead-black darkness which suggests a weird, soft mist upon the night, and is indeed a glory ever. But her eyes are her priceless, crowning loveli ness, her never ending power and charm. They cannot be described. When you say that behind their long, dark, half-hiding lashes they are large, d irk, dreamy, yet g.owing, flashing with fire, liquid with languor, you have only hinted their inexpres sible expressiveness. They are the same eyes at • n iie, at nineteen and at ninety. jimwb "cents; LOST AT SEA. BY FLORENCE PEACOCK. Good-night, beloved; the light is slowly dying From wood and field, and far away the sea Moans deep within its bosom. Is it s ghing For those whose rest can never broken be: For those who found their way to God; yet never Beneath green sod may rest, the sea holds thjm ’ ever ? Yes, deep and still your grave; the ocean keeping Whato’er it gains forever in its hold. I know that in its depths you now are slewing, Quiet and dreamless as in churchyard moldj. But I have no still mound, as others, only The memory of times past, 'mid days that u6w lonely. Buried deep with you in the sea forever Is all the brightness earth had once for me, The Spring returns, flowers bloonTkgain; but nevtff I feel the joy in bird, and flower, and treej : , I see, but feel not as in days of yore, ■- ' Those days that can come back tp ah, nefif more! < But yet I know that I am not forsaken. "Lead Thou me on,” I now can calmly sayj None know the bitterness of sorrow taken From out my heart; wbeP I that prayer COxJJj pray, 1 In His own time God took you hi His keeping, .J. ] All earthly sorrows past; where there is no PlO/J weeping. ‘ grilling jitorg.' TRffifSTfflA BY A FAVORITE AUTHOR. CHAPTER X. “ I HAVE HAD SUCH A HAPPY DAY.” I The next day I gave my piano lessons earl/, in the morning, and hurried back to town. I. did not even stay to see Mrs. Carlyle. I impatient to return. There was no reason for.; this impatience—l did not expect Mr. DarrelV till three; I was, however, back in my rooms ail half-past twelve. I had not long come in, was ruefully contemplating my dress, whicU was fast becoming shabby, when Mr. Darrell came to see me. ‘•I did not expect you so soon,” I said. “ Are you regretting my sudden ance ?” “Do I look like it?” I asked, in reply. I felt suddenly very light-hearted. At seven* teen gloom qufokly flits away. “ I wonder that I ever discovered yonr dwell*! ing up here; a young lady with a curly head opened the door, and told me I’< find Miss Robinson ‘hup stairs,’ but she seemect to breathe forth scorn at the thought of show, ing me the way, which, perhaps, I appeared to expect.” r ‘ That was my landlady’s daughter. She i 9 so magnificent lam afraid of her. You are go ing to Farnmore to-day ?” I interrogated. “ No, I don’t think I am.” I suppose I looked disappointed, for Mr. Dar. rell added quickly: “ I’ll go to-morrow; but I have a little plan for this afternoon and evening.” “ What is it?” “ I want to take you up the river. It is a beautiful day, and I fancy you will like the trip. Will you come ?” “ Oh, it will be nice I” I replied at once. “ Of course, Lady Stella, you are quite award that in the eyes of your circle, of Mrs. Grundy and all her supporters, it is not at all correct, that you should have a nice row up the rives with me. I snap my fingers at that sort of thing, and, according to my code, it is perfectly sensible that we should enjoy this Autumn day; but, if you feel anv sort ot qualm, if afar of? you scent repentance, then don’t—don’t—don’t come.” I laughed merrily. “ I think it will be delightful to see the rives and the trees, and to feel free. Perhaps,” I added, with a longing for even one day’s eman ciption from rules and dreariness—" perhaps it will be my only day of liberty.” “ Then it is a duty to yourself to experience the charms of liberty for once; so coma along.” I went for my hat. As I put it on, I wished! for a pretty costume which would be in har mony with the sunshine and brightness of the day and my own spirits. My dress was a dark blue—its chief characteristic was the perfection of its fit; but I did not think it pretty enough. Since I had met Lord Roland’’ and Mr. Darrell, I had been tempted to buy a new pair of gloves, and, as I could not quite free myself from my old habits, tha gloves were of a delicate color and the best kind. When I put them on now, I felt com ftfrted. As I re-entered my sitting-room, Mr. Dar. rell looked at me scrutinizingly, then said ab ruptly : j “ If we are to catch the two o’clock train, wa must be off; there's no time to lose.” We were to go to Taplow by train. We had just left Paddington when Mr. Darrell said : “ It is so much nicer to talk on the river than in a train; let’s reserve ourselves.” He handed me a story of Auerbach’s, which he had in his pocket, and took up a news paper himself. I felt very contented, sitting there lazily reading snatches of the story andf looking out at the country through which we wero passing. I interrupted Mr. Darrell from tim« to time to ask him questions about the places I saw from the window. He knew the whola country well, and had many an anecdote ta tell of the people who lived there ; but, except for desultory comment such as this, our journey was performed almost in silence. We reached Taplow ; then, at an inn near the water, Mr. Darrell left me in a little par lor, with a sanded floor, and in a few minutes he appeared, dressed in a white boating suit, and accompanied by a boy carrying a basket. “ Come along 1” he said, gayly. As we walked to the river, I felt, as I looked at Mr. Darrell, that it was impossible not to be happy in his society; there was a cheeri ness about him which seemed to defy dull care. His rather long curly hair stood out be neath a close-fitting cap, like a berett: ; bis while flannel shirt showed his bronzed neck, on which his head was set with singular beauty, his whole bearing was of strength and ease, of vig orous health; there could not have been a more joy-inspiring companion. I felt as gay as any child throughout the length and breadth ot England. “ We’re off I” he said, with a little wave of tha hand, as we pushed off from shore. A strong boatman rowed and Mr. Darrell steered. Presently he said: “I mean to teach you to steer, as I shall diet miss Charon by-and-by, and row you back mys self.” “ Why should you tire yourself rowing bacift when you have some one to do it for you ?” j asked..