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!U I f J I *r-ZX.zlz; I - I Z^'zO/S^^X/l-z3l w I a BIM. wiQfflw&tt - -/ z S—>' MWKRS'^Gaar’SwMS^^’WW*’^JWsx ■*•BiKSwHSw 11 - PUBLISHED BL A. J. WILLIAMSON’S SONS. VOL. X 1.11.-50. 51. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Matter. THE HENV 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 voted to Masonic Matters, and careful attention is given to Music and the Drama. The Dispatch is sold by all News Agents of the city and Suburbs, at FIVE CENTS A COPY. TERMS FOR MAIL SUBSCRIBERS: SINGLE SUBSCRIPTIONS $2 50 a year TWO SUBSCRIBERS 400 “ FIVE SUBSCRIBERS '. 900 “ ALL MAIL SUBSCRIPTIONS MUST BE PAID TN AD VANCE. POSTAGE PAID EVERYWHERE BY THE DISPATCH OFFICE. AOTrera NEW YORK DISPATCH, Post Office Box No. 1775. PLAYS ANELPLAYERS. LANGTRY—BRONSON HOWARD. Another Dark Secret—** As in a Looking- Glass ’’-Why Was it Written ?-Tlie Apotheosis of Vice-Mrs. Langtry as the Adventuress—Mr. Bron son Howard’s Latest Work— ** The Henrietta ”—A Gen uine Comedy—From the Malarial Fog Into Sunlight, etc. BY JOHN CARBOY. A Dark Secret other than that which now is nightly revealed upon the stage ot the Academy of Music. That bright and lively example of aqueous real ism is a dark secret only in name; its water is so clear that you can see through it to the end of the story—as if it were a mirror. And this reminds me of another work—which ifl not a mirror so perfect in its reflection. It beAfs the title of “As in a Looking-Glass.” It is in some sort the distraught transcript of a distortion in the form of.a novel, the author where of is one Phillips. It is a dark secret as to why such a story was ■written, and a still darker secret why it should ever have been put into dramatic shape and paraded upon an English-speaking stage. The novel Is the alleged diary of aa adventuress who has been two or three times married and is the willing accomplice and unblushing mistress of a person who, in this country, would be called a con fidence operator and a hardened and heartless swindler, with not one redeeming virtue in his en tire mental make-up. This adventuress, Lena Despard, a veritable image <of the Strange Woman, arrayed "in purple and scarlet color, and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls,” is the central figure of a series of unsavory Incidents, which might well find fitting and appro priate place in the autobiography of a Cora Pearl. Around her move, AS IN A SENSUOUS DREAM OF CARNALIIW. figures like hers, which become vague and inconse quent whenever they assume even the pretense of virtuous inclining, or of having something of moral purpose to account for thehFexistence. So it is that the Beatrice Vyse, being a virtuous love-stricken Innocent, is a mere lay figure, with a feeble showing of vitality and vacuous of interest, eave as a foil to make more conspicuous the auda cious vices of the adventuress and her pal, Captain Fortinbras. Lord Udolpho Daysey is a man about town who has but one—and that the vilest—idea of woman’s nature. There is Count Dromlroff, the Russian, who certainly is not troubled with an oyer-ballast Of conscientious scruples; Sir Thomai Gage, an old lecher, who is ready to abandon wife, family, and wallow in disgrace for the gratification of his pas sions; and there is Lord Algernon Balfour, who is a good-natured, social ass. You have, too, a French lady’s maid, who is well fitted in laxity of integrity to be the confidante of a mistress like Lena Despard. As for the other men and women who complete the group, they are colorless and vapid; mere apol ogies—scraps of characters—who move about and answer as filling. They are little else than shadows, In all this dramatic exposition of splendid and brazen human Infamy, the intrigues and machina tions of Mrs. Despard and Captain Jack, in her de ception of the vacuous Miss Vyse, in order that the adventuress may capture iato her own arms—not for love, but for his money and position—the plia ble donkey, Algernon Balfour, and up to the close of the story, there is NOT ONE GLEAM OF HONEST SINCERITY, not one ennobling trait of pure and unselfish hu manity to recommend it sweetly to the moral tense of an audience. All the magnificence of drAaia: disnlav “sola and precious stones and pearls;” all of decorative art and splendor of scenic surroundings and costly appointments with which such a vision of human ly vice can be made attractive to the eye and add to its sensuous interest, can not give it pleasant wel come to the decent mind. It is of that class of dramatic work which illus trates only the worst and more disgusting phases of social life; it inculcates no moral nor does it adorn the literature of the time. There may be pecuniary profit in such productions, but there are other and DObler purposes which are to be considered. So far as Mrs. Langtry's performance of Mrs. Despard is concerned, she is easy and gracious well, let me say “at home at all times”—in the drawing-room and in such of the associations of the play as make no demand for intensity of passion, for emotional force and the expression of the sub tler elements of woman’s nature. She in no instance is dramatic in her portraiture of Lena Despard; her expression of the varying passions which compose the vitality of the charac ter is a cold and transparent simulation; there is no more depth in it than there is in the cheap walnut Stain on a pine coffin. You are never led away by the impression that she feels what she utters, and you remember her as you would the echo of some familiar sound. Her acting reminds me of a half-dollar I had the Other day. I didn't receive it at the ticket office of a circus. The coin was bright and shining, perfect and new—evidently not many weeks from the Mint. Somehow it seemed to me to be too bright to be genuine, I scraped a bit of its surface, ap plied a drop of acid, and lo! IT WAS BRASS— pure, cold brass. Or a composite of that material and lead. A rank, thinly disguised counterfeit. Without that drop of acid upon its flimsy wash of silver, it would have readily have passed the scrutiny of your ordinary tradesman. The truth is acid—when it drops upon the coun terfeit of acting. And as in coin, so in the work of the stage; there is a great deal more of this “ shoving of the queer " zipon the public than the ordinary observer dreams of. We accept it-,not as one does the small change banded him by the horse-car conductor—but rather aa the matter-of-course-return from the pretty, •mllipg cashier of a restaurant We don’t want to Jinauit her beauty and change her smiles by show tag any suspicion of her honesty* Mrs. Langtry is a handsome woman, and has a keener appreciation of the financial end of her pro fessional task than of its art. Her beauty is pro fessional, her dressing faultless, 4 her bearing the glory of a drawing-room reception, and her acting— as far as depth of feeling, sincerity and force are concerned—is—to put it mildly—the half-dollar Which will not bear the acid. when with it—we must accept such email and mutilated change as this “Asln a Looking Glass”—the outcome of a novel which should never have been written—which no reputable published ought to have placed before the public one won ders how far beyond Niniche and Camille one must go in the acceptance of the later offerings of the theatre and the more or less leading representatives of dramatic art. That an article is in demand and yields a hand some and constantly increasing profit to the seller, is by no means an endorsement of its purity or the actual need of it. There is no pound of sugar nowadays that hath not its share of sand. And a little of the sand goes a great way—for tho grocer’s profit. From this As In a Looking Glass ” let me turn the leaf in the book of the fortnight’s productions upon our stage and fall to something of more wel come method. Welcome because it is the outcome of A HEALTHFUL, CLEANLY STUDY OF HUMANITY, and of a happier and more palatable view of the lives that are lived in this, our present time. To Bronson Howard the stage is indebted for • Saratoga,” “ Old Love Letters,” “ Our Girls ” and “ Met By Chance.” Also for •• Green-room Fun,” “Baron Rudolph ” and “The Banker’s Daughter.” It will be remembered that among these contri butions to the stage there were two or three which were written to order, with a fit guaranteed to the stars for whom the leading roles were measured. The most successful were “The Banker’s Daught ter,” produced by Messrs. Shook & Palmer, and “Saratoga,” by Mr. Daly, in the first year of his management of a theatre. I suppose that “Met by Chance” ought not to be counted. It is not necessary here to say why it so signally failed when brought out by Miss Dauvray at the Lyceum. That it did fail, and that “Our Girls,” which pre ceded it on that same stage was not a brilliant and abiding triumph for the author, is no evidence that Mr. Howard was at fault. Again Mr. Howard has come forward, and “The Henrietta” had its primal representation upon the stage of the Union Square Theatre, on Monday night last. In this work, Bronson Howard has given to the stage the most perfect of all his efforts as a drama tist, and THE MOST PERFECT COMEDY yet written by an American author. The subject is American, and its coloring brilliant with the hues of the life of to-day. The text is as clear and direct in diction as ever oame from the pen of the elder dramatist; the wit and badinage is as incisive and bright as the satire is sharp and effective in its pur pose. There is no mistaking the motive, and there is no room left for questioning the use of such an offer ing. Every character is a transcript of a class, and each one bears the impresss of a strong and unmis takable individually, and has a distinct and clearly defined purpose to accomplish. There is in it the same elements which have for a hundred years retained upon the stage and given an enduring fame to the comedies of Sheri dan and Goldsmith. And Ido not doubt that when this age shall have passed away, and Wall street and the fierce struggles in its Stock Exchange; for wealth; its tricks and desperate devices, and de feats; its ruin of men’s honor, its financial crimes and its triumphs exist only in history—this comedy will have a place in standard dramatic literature — as a picture of our life and times and battles for wealth and position, even as now “ The School for Scandal” is an inustration of the era of one hun dred years Ago, when suenaau giuriuou avogv and England with his genius. As there is In “ The School for Scandal** evidence that Sheridan in the formation of the plot had something of reference to Wycherly’s “Plain Dealer” and to Congreve in the sharpness of his dia logue—so in Mr. Howard’s splendid comedy there is a vague suggestion that he has availed himself of hints from other sources. And as, when Sheridan's comedy was produced, there came the envious scandal that its argument and portions of the dialogue were taken from a manuscript which had previously been delivered at Drury Lane Theatre by a young lady, the daughter of a merchant in Thames street, so no doubt there will come the inevitable carpers who will try to show that—really after all, the excellence of “ The Henrietta” is attributable to other sources than the author’s Imagination. And, aa following Sheridan's comedy, there came successively no less than five other comedies, each bearing the title, “The School for Scandal,” and which were abortive imitations and catchpennies, so there will doubtless come other comedies and plays having for their subject the financial and so cial lives of the bulls and bears of the Stock Ex change—and in a little while be heard of no more. I do not remember ever seeing an audience on the first night of a new work, so thoroughly held to its seats and so entirely Interested in the progress of the business of the stage, iu the movements of the characters and in the story of the play, as this one was on Monday night last in this comedy of “THE HENRIETTA.” There was sincerity on the stage and in tne trout of *it: it was nn inncar the experimental trial of a first performance at the close of the first act; it was as if the great .throng of spectators had been witnessing the revival of some work with which they had been familiar for years. And they were familiar with it; they knew old Nick Vanalstyne, the millionaire broker, well; the Dr. Murray Hilton—why they had met him in their parlors and heard his soft and oleaginous voice how often they knew not—in his pulpit; the hard money maker, Flint; the Bertie Vanalstyne—and the young Lord Arthur—why—they were familiar, but they had never seen these real life worthies upon the stage before. They had merely stepped upon the stage from the wild tumult of the stock exchange, from the draw ingrooms away up in the avenue, or from the street. There they were Imitating themselves—or rather forming the persona of a comedy which in itself was but the transcript and repeti tion of their own everyday lives, of their conflicts, their disappointments and loves, and their home intercourse and without “ make up " or the trick ery and devices of stage effect. It is such comedies, of which this of Mr. Bronson Howard's is a memorable example, that should hold place and will hold place—when they come—upon our stage and in the admiration and favor of the truer friends of the drama. Criticism upon the acting and consideration of the nature and argument of the comedy will be found in another column. I have only to say that I was templed to briefly allude to its merits in a literary regard, and to the purity of its diction and purpose, the perfection of its construction, as matters of contrast with the play in which Mrs. Langtry—her personality and dresses being its chiefest and in fact only attraction—is now spear ing at the Fifth Avenue. From “As in a Looking-glass *• to “The Henriet ta,” is like coming up out of a malarial fog into the bright and healthful light of the noonday sun. Or as supplementing a chapter of Zola with a page of Thackeray. I prefer Bronson Howard’s mirror to Mr. Philips’s •Looking-glass.” I see in the mirror something of reflection that makes life worth the living; some thing that reminds one that a first night’s perform ance is not to be always in vain or a labor, and that in the travail of the season there may come at least one relief to its monotony and weary round. I think the “Coming Dramatist ” has come. GovebNor Sewabd used to tell a story about Governor Draper, who was dining one day at Congress Hall Hotel, where the butter happened to be particularly rank. “Here, John,” said Draper, to a favorite waiter, who was standing behind him, “John, take this butter away; some people like their butter stronger than others.” John took the plate, held it up to his nose a moment with the air of a connoisseur, then put it back again in its place, and observed, in a firm voice: “Misther Draper, that is the strongest butter in the house.’* NEW YORK, SUNDAY, OCTOBER 2. ISS7. SOUIRE BOUfIHTOS’S PLOT. * The Career of a Rich Man’s Only Child. The Associate of a London Gang of Thieves. How the Robbery of Bough Hall Was Planned, A Horrible Crime Which was Quickly Avenged. Among some old newspapers in the of the writer is one printed in 1793, containing an ac ( count of a most remarkable case. The story, con densed, is told here: Squire Boughton, of Bough Hall, in the County of Kent, England, died in January, 1789. To his , only child, James Boughton, he left an income of . £2OO a year.- James, who was then in his twenty fifth year, had led a wild and dissipated life, and his father, worn out by his son’s dissipation and ex ( cesses, had resolved to disinherit him. The squire had a niece, Jsne Shapsley, two years older than his son, a woman of great courage and resolution, who had lived with him for many years. To her he left j all his estate, provided she married his son. If she failed to do so within a given time, she was to re ( ceive £4OO yearly as a charge on the estate, and the > property was to revert to a distant relative. The squire’s hope was that Jane, who had always pos sessed great influence over his son, would be able to reform him and make a man of him. James was living a reckless and almost criminal life in Loudon. When he learned of the disposition made of hia lather’s estate he said nothing. For t some time after the funeral he remained at Bough Hall, and finally made up his mind to marry his , cousin. He went away for a time, and on hia re turn appeared sedate and inclined to spend his IftiS j ure in a quiet and proper way. Jane seemed to exert a good influence over him, and they got on very pleasantly together. AFTER CARRIAGE. s As soon as a twelvemonth had passed after Squire s Boughton's death, James and his cousin were mar t ried. They resided, of course, at the Hall, and were - well received by their neighbors. James passed his time shooting, fishing and hunting, and it seemed ‘ for a year as if ho was going to settle down to the - life of a reputable country squire. A son was born, and there was great rejoicing, but soon after this James grew reckless, and paid his first visit to Lon- } don since his marriage. There he met with some of his old acquaintances, 1 and as he had procured from his wife a supply of money, he indulged in most of his former ex ' cesses. His old habits of dissipation revived, and - he returned home only to endeavor to get a further sum of money from Jane. Bhe resisted his impor tunities, and he seemed to acquiesce in her better e judgment. But the fires were burning within, and, e though he managed to smother them for a time, as [. soon as he procured funds, he again went to Lon don, and renewed his wild and disorderly living. THE OLD EVIL CAREER. Broken in health and penniless, he once more r sought refuge at Bough Hall and pretended to be i- penitent and promised to reform. His wife treated 6 him with great forbearance and affection, but was nevertheless firmly resolved to Intrust him no more ? with the means of riotous indulgence. Within six months, however, an aunt left him £3,000, and, aa , r soon as it came into his hands, he went to London and outdid bis former career. By this time he was r even more demoralized than when his father died, i- and was firmly resolved to continue his life in Lon v xxvm arvmm ur uthcr. He sank lower and lower, until he became the associate of gamblers of the worst order. Among e these was a man named Blakeman, who did nothing d and bad no property, but was nevertheless always provided with money. This man introduced James Boughton to a circle of acquaintances, some of whom were evidently of a very low grade though e they dressed well and spent money freely. They . f met at a house near St. Paul’s churchyard and often spoke together in a lingo which was unintelligible Boughton. Occasionally some of them would dis , appear from their usual haunts for many days » together. On their return there would be much private talk and whispering, and on more than one a occasion members of the club, as it was called, t disappeared altogether. r FALLEN AMONG THIEVES. e Things had reached a very low ebb with Bough _ ton, when Blakeman took him aside and enlight ened him as to the character of the men with whom e he was associated. It must be observed that, when e Boughton drifted away from the better class of young men with whom he had been friendly, he dropped his own name and assumed that of Jen -0 nings, and by that name only he was known to i Blakeman and his companions. Who he was or j whence he came, or who werejhls connections, his later associates did not know. > “I don’t know who you are,” said Blakeman; I “ but I know that when you have money you spend . it like a prince. I know, too, that you are good company, and I think you possess qualities which would make you shine in our profession. For, un derstand, we are not idlers, though we may seem so Q to you.” Then Blakeman informed Boughton that the club 8 consisted of men who were expert footpads and f housebreakers, and that in that way they made a their living. 8 “I WILL BE ONE OF YOU.” “As for myself,” said Blakeman, “sometimes I take to the highway and sometimes I break into a house, though latterly I have been captain of the club and have devoted most of my time to planning 6 business for tho others. Now, if you wish to join i us, say so. You will be heartily welcome. If you t do not wish to take a hand in, why you needn’t. We will trust to your honor as a man never to be -1 tray us.” i Boughton was startled at this information, but he did not show his surprise. He was a man of nerve and resource, and, grasping Blakeman’s hand he 1 replied: e “My dear fellow, it will suit me exactly. But to . tell you the truth, I must be absent for a month or so on very particular business, and on my return I * will be one of you.” 1 Boughton had, in reality, made up his mind to 1 quit his associates. What to do he didn’t know The thought that he might have been arrested as ’ one of the gang and been subjected to a disgraceful s punishment, had a very startling effect upon him- so much so, that he resolved to go back home, con fess his faults to his wife, implore forgiveness and B ever afterward lead a new life. Ho carried out this resolution. His wife received j him without upbraiding, and did all that a wise , and compassionate woman could do to foster the good resolutions which her husband professed. A r month passed away, and the old fever for London . and its fast life returned. Boughton resisted in vain, and at length his moral strength gave way, ’ and he began to scheme hard to procure the means a to indulge his passion for dissipation. BACK IN LONDON. All this time, however, his wife was satisfied of i the genuineness of his reformation, and when he , asked for a sum of money to go to London to make certain purchases of clothing, she gave him it with i out any fear of the consequences. , He reached London on October 7, 1792 and the same evening visited his friends at the club. He spent his money freely, but not lavishly, and an f nounced his intention of joining the club. The next day he said to Blakeman : “ I suppose if I were to give you information of t a good house to break into, you would take it as a l good piece of work on my part?” j “ Assuredly we should,” was the reply. “Well, then,” said Boughton, “let us all ait ’ down, and over the wine I will say what I have to say.” Nine of the gang sat down, and the wine went round. “ Our new member, Mr. Jennings, has something to communicate,” said Blakeman, “which is of im portance, and will interest us all.” “Gentlemen,” said Boughton, “having joined the club, it behooves me to do what I can to ad vance its interests. I know a country house, about forty miles from here, which offers a fine field for our enterprise. I know it well, having had the honor on more than one occasion to dine there.” “Ho, ho ! hear him,” cried a member. “To dine there ? Just so—in the kitchen.” A PLACE TO PLUNDER. “Never mind where,my friends,” was Boughton’s . answer; “I acquired a certain knowledge of the ’ place and, let me say, a familiarity with a charming ; young lady there which I think we may now turn to good account. In the pantry is a lot of valuable silver, worth a good many thousand pounds. In my lady's chamber is a jewel case, with valuables in it worth a good many thousand pounds more Nowaks job is a comparatively easy one. Here is a key —” “Ah, a key !” exclaimed several voices. ’‘That looks like business.” Here is a key,” continued Boughton, holding up the article mentioned, “which will unlock aside door leading into the garden. The pantry door can be easily fodree. On the night on which you fix the job, the door of my lady’s dressing-room will be open, and you can enter by that room into her sleeping apartment. But it must be understood that there is to be no violence to her.” Boughton then described with great particularity the v rious localities in the house and produced a paper with a diagram on which they were marked. anti gnhjrnhnt. HIS OWN HOME. “ Now for the place—where is the place ?” some one asked. “I am coming to that,” said Boughton. “It is, as I have already said, about forty miles from here. You will go through Gravesend and the place is a little beyond Rochester. It is known as Bough Hall, and is the residence of’Squire Boughton, who is at present away from home.” After further talk and after many questions had been satisfactorily answered by Boughton, it was decided that the place should be robbed at half an hour after midnight of October 20. Boughton de livered up the key, with the understanding that when the thieves quitted the Hall, they should see that the key was placed inside the door. “You have no need of fear,” he said, “for there will be only half a dozen women in the house.” The next day he visited the club again, and ex plained that he must leave London on very import ant business connected with a small legacy which he had received, and would not return until the job was over. PREPARING FOR THE DEED, Boughton immediately returned home, and his wife was delighted with his conduct. He bore him self with manly courtesy and affection toward her. On the afternoon of October 20 he left on horseback to drive with a friend, at Canterbury, saying that he might not return before the morning. He quitted his friend’s bouse early in the night, and reached the village of Boughton about eleven o’clock. He went to the inn there and said that, as he did not wish to rouse the people at the hall, he would stay until morning. “ I will use the small bedroom over the garden, he said, “ and if you will give me some wine, I shall be content.” When the inn was quiet he descended to the gar den and crossed the fields toward the hall, which he entered by the conservatory. The strong double oaken door between it and the hall he opened with the key which he had brought away with him. All was still within. Ascending to his wife’s apart ments, he opened the dressing-room door with the key which he had also taken with him, on the pleft that if he should by any chance return home that night he could retire without disturbing his wife, THE DEED IS DONE. Mrs. Boughton lay in bed, fast asleep. Her hus band stood in the doorway between the two rooms, gazing at her as she lay. The night light, which was burning on a side table, fully disclosed the situation. Drawing a dagger from his garments, he stealthily approached the sleeper. The bed clothes covered her to the throat. That w%s as he desired. Rapidly and with tremendous force be plunged the dagger intj she heart of his wife. There was np apirtifig of blood—the bed-clothes prevented that, The wretched woman opened her and Struggled to rise. The blow was repeated, And she was a corpse. Then, wiping the dagger, Boughton withdrew. He quitted the house as he entered it, and went back to the inn. A few minutes after he had done the deed of blood, Blakeman and four others of his gang opened the side-door leading into the garden. Thanks to a close study of the diagram furnished by Boughton, they had no difficulty in fixing locali ties. NVhile three of the robbers went to the pan try, Blakeman ascended to Mrs. Boughton’s apart ments. WHAT THE ROBBER SAW. He found the dressing-room open, as Jennings— that is, Boughton—had said. He passed within, and entered the bedroom. The sleeper did not move. He went to the bureau where he was to find the jewel-case, and turned all out, but it was not there. He looked around. His eye was riveted upon the bed. There was no blood upon it. He drew near. The face upon which he gazed was horrible. His flesh began to creep. He drew down the olothes. They were saturated with blood. Almost over come, he hurriedly left the room and found his companions below in whispered consultation. As he drew near, one of them said: “There is not so much silver in the pantry as we expected.” •• Come away,” he said; “ the job is a failure. A woman up stairs has been murdered.” Silently and swiftly they quitted the place, and made the best of their way back tc London. THE THEORY OF THE lOLICE. Next morning it was found by tie servants, very early, that the pantry had been iroken open and the silver stolen. Then Mrs. Boughton’s maid dis covered her murdered mistress. The contents of the bureau were scattered around and there was no doubt that Mrs. Boughton had been assassinated by the robbers. The ueighborkood was speedily aroused, and when James Boughton reached the Hall he found everything iu confusion and every body in the wildest state of excitement. As for him, he assumed an air of unutterable grief, and thoroughly imposed upon all who saw him mani fest such apparently heartfelt sorrow. He consult ed with the magistrates, and measures were at once taken to traci and secure the thieves and murder ers. Officers came down from London and exam ined the premises, and were of opinion that some one person had perpetrated the crime. It wss supposed that this person had been watch ing the promises for some time and had at length found the side door open. The impression was that, when he was ransacking the bureau, Mrs. Boughton had madesome movement, which had excited the thief's fears and induced him to kill her. The property went to Mrs. Boughton’s only child, whose guardian James became. In the entire es tate he had a courtesy title for life, and was thus at length possessed of an enormous Income. The child was placed in the custody of an experienced nurse, and James went to the Continent for change of scene. THE TRUNK. When Blakeman and his assistants reached Lon don after the burglary at Bough Hall, they thought it best to separate for a time. Blakeman went Into hiding at Rotherhite and remained there for some days. But funds began to fail-and it was necessary to dispose of the stolen property. Blakeman ar raged that two of the gang, disguised as watermen, were to carry the silverware in a trunk, to a certain place in Southwark, where a noted receiver of stolen goods was to call for it and leave behind the sum he was willing to pay. The trunk was safely shipped on board the boat, and the supposed waterman started with it up the river. Blakeman, who half mistrusted the men, secretly followed them in a wherry. No sooner had the men landed with the trunk, than they were seized by the watch who were looking out for sus picious characters. As soon as Blakeman saw this he was panic-stricken, and directed the wherry to be rowed back. He discharged the waterman, and going lower down, hired a boat and started alone down the river. At dusk he reached Filbury Fort and went on board a lugger, to the captain of which be was well known. The lugger dropped down with the tide and Blakeman made his escape to France. THE SQUIRE FAILS TO APPEAR. In the meantime the men with the trunk were de tained and on the contents of the trunk being exam ined, it was found to consist of the silverware stolen from Bough Hall. He even admitted that they be longed to the gang who had been implicated in that robbery, though they denied their own participa-, tion in it. Through them the police obtained Infor mation which led within two months to the capture of all connected tfith the dreadful crime, except Blakeman. Squire Boughton paid no heed to a notification that his presence would be necessary to identify the property, and so the butler and a servant had to give testimony before the grand jury. When tho time for the trial approached, a special mandate of the court was served upon the squire in Paris, requiring his presence at a certain time, under pain of out lawry and forfeiture of his property. Dreading identification as Jennings, he disguised himself as thoroughly as possible with the aid of cosmetics and a wig, and, as he had grown very stout, hoped to escape being recognized by his former associates. AN UNEXPECTED WITNESS. In the meantime, however, a witness against him had appeared in the person of Clay, who kept the inn at Boughton, where the squire had stayed on the night of the murder. It appeared that Clay’s curiosity had been excited at the squire’s putting up there for the night and selecting the room over the garden; so Clay watched him, imagining that he had an amour with some woman in the village. When the squire dropped from the window of his bedroom into the garden, and, scaling the wall, started in the direction of the Hall, Clay followed at a safe distance. He saw the squire enter the con servatory, and, after a short time, return. But, in stead of taking the road by which he had gone to the Hall, he walked toward a pond at the eastera corner of the park, into which he threw something. Then he directed bis steps toward the inn, followed by Clay. After the funeral of Mrs. Boughton, Clay called on the squire and told him what he had seen. The squire frowned and was very indignant, but finally said that he suspected his wife ot infidelity with a servant, and had visited the Hall in order to set at rest his suspicions. He gave Clay five pounds and promised a hundred pounds more in a month, if he would say nothing of the matter. When the squire quitted the Hall and went to the continent without performing his promise, and several months elapsed, Clay began to throw out hints as to what he saw on the night of Mrs. Boughton’s murder. These things oame to the ears of a neighboring magistrate, who sent for Clay and questioned him. Then the story, as just told, came out. THE SQUIRE IDENTIFIED. The magistrate, after consultation, made known to the authorities the statement made by Clay and the mandate already referred to was issued in order to secure Squire Boughton’s presence in England. His early career and the fact that his wife's death would enrich him, were motives which, it was thought, might have induced him to become an accessory at least to the crime of murder. Wh.n the members of the gang already indicted were conironted with Boughton, they immediately identified him as Jennings, and related all the facts of his connection with the burglary at Bough Hall. The pond into which Clay said he saw Boughton throw something was dragged and a dagger was found, which was identified as one that had long hung in the library at the Hall. Squire Boughton was indicted as an accessory to the crime of burglary and murder, and convicted along with the gang. Before the sentence of death was executed, he made a confession, involving all the facts contained in this narrative. CRYPTOGRAPHY. The Sign Language of Conspiracies, Political Intrigues, Army Combi nations and Business Ventures. THE TILDEN TELEGRAMS. Peculiarities of the Several Cipher Codes of Ancient and Modern Times. GENERAL STAGER'S MILITARY TELEGRAPH CORPS. Cryptography, or the art of concealment in writ ing, is derived from analagons terms in Greek and Arabic, signifying to hide or vail in words. It is an art that has prevailed from the earliest times, and the extent ef its use has never been greater than at the present. The governments of all civilized lands, persons engaged in commerce, and all in dividuals who patronize the telegraph make lavish use of cryptography, having each a specially con structed cipher code. The origin of cryptography is as old as traditional history, as ancient, perhaps, as the inherent human trait which inclines man kind to secrecy. In the sign characters and hieroglyphs of certain stones and parchments dis covered amid the hoary relics of extinct racks in Assyria and the East, there are evidences of a mean ing concealed beneath the transactions which are piafle by antiquarians. The early Egyptians were familiar with cryptography aii<J k a .Y® i jawke of this knowledge in the shape Of cryptograms khd oqu combinations of hieroglyphs upon pyramids, the meaning of which baffied the numerous savants who have studied those wonderful structures. The Jewish rabbis made an abundant use of the art of concealiug 4heir meaning under a mask of harm less words. It was favored even by the sacred writers, at least one instance of its use being found in the Bible. More definite evidence of cryptography’s use in later times are abundant. It has ever been the written language in which governments have com municated with their agents. Especially has this been the case in times ol war. Among the early Britons three arrows brought to the king signified that his general had gained a victory. The Laceda monians transposed letters so as to form combina tions of words not understood by any save those persons to whom they were dispatched. The Spar tans had also a large cipher code by means of which their Ephos conveyed tidings to their generals in the field. THE MESSAGE was written on narrow strips of parchment, in char acters that were meaningless to a person not pos sessed ot their key. Wound around a staff of a cer tain size, previously agreed upon, the particular sized staff being in itself the key, the edges of the parchment met in a certain way and the message read clearly. This cipher code of remote antiquity has descended into India, where it is still used by the priests in communicating with each other. Lines from the sacred books of Vishnu are carved according to the system of this code in the lacquer work of scent boxes and on finger rings. Julius Caesar made a large use of ciphers in his campaigns. His favorite code was the transposi tion of letters, the simplest and indeed the only code in the infancy of letters. Michianelli, for three centuries known to the world as the infamous em bodiment of cruelty and moral turpitude, until Ma caulay's celebrated essay went far to redeem his memory, was accustomed to transmit his orders to burn, murder, pillage and destroy, to bis emissaries, vailed in characters and letters that were meaning less to the uniniated. The Duke de Richelieu was prone to surround his movements with mystery, and his correspondence was largely in cipher. As in everything else, this extraordinary man was orig inal in his systems of crytograpby. Often docu ments came from his cabinet bearing on their face a clear meaning, but, read according to their key, carrying orders fraught with the direst conse quences. A CURIOUS INSTANCE of the Cardinal Duke's cipher cod? is preserved in a letter of introduction which he gave a French no bleman, addressed to a church dignitary at Rome. The lines read from side to side, commended the bearer to the good offices of the ecclesiastical as a worthy person. But read from the right of an im aginary line, drawn down the middle of the page, the letter warns the priest that the bearer is a dan gerous plotter and recommends that he be disposed of. John Trithemus, the Abbot of Spanheim, was the first writer on cryptography. At the command of the Duke of Bavaria he enlarged and elaborated the codes in use at the time. John Baptist Porta, a Neapolitan mathematician, was the first to draw attention to the numberless combinations possible in transposing the letters of the Roman alphabet lhe mathematical phase «of the subject engaged Francis Bacon, the great English statesman, essay ist and philosopher. “ A cipher,” said Bacon, •• should not be labor ious to read and write, impossible to decipher, and in some cases, be above suspicion.” He was the first writer to suggest that words might be employed in codes, instead of letters or figures. The mathematical cipher, which is an Im proved and modernized form, is the most secret of codes, and was probably Bacon's invention. Lord Verulam was a copious writer on the subject. On the trial of Earl Somerset for treason, Verulam incon sistently urged as a ground for his conviction that the earl had CIPHERS AND JARGONS for king, queen and great men —things seldom used by either princes or their ambassadors. But though by the law of some countries in certain imes forbidden, cryptography in its use has never been restricted to “princesand their ambassadors.” It has always been the language of conspiracy and treason. In the sixteenth century the art had be come so common that not only were important state papers vailed in jargons, but private individu als, merchants and money changers communicated between themselves in cipher. In the two or three centuries preceding the dawn of later civilization, society was disturbed by constant wars, and life and property were insecure. Written communica tioa between commercial men, an institution at that time in its infancy, was difficult, often dan gerous. Under these conditions, cryptography was very generally used, and the art in consequence, improved. Codes multiplied in number, and many curious kinds were invented. Among them was the string cipher, an Italian invention, deriving its name from the resemblance between a tangled string and the message when turned into the code. An other was the concentric code, the words following in a gradually widening spiral. These and nearly all-others of the time were comparatively simple and ’ THEIR KEYS were readily found by any careful investigator. All the systems in use at the time were well under stood, and it is remarkable that such should have been the case, when the momentous events then transpiring on the stage of Europe are considered. The blaze of Napoleon's conquests illuminated the continent; trade was unsettled; means of communi cation were uncertain; yet it is said that,in common with weaker concerns, the greatest money power of the time, the Rothschilds, disdained to vail their in structions to their agents in jargons. When, there fore, the head of their London house died abroad, the line “Il est mort,” tied to the wing of a carrier pigeon, snot by a farmer’s boy in Surrey, was for warded to London, the Stock Exchange plunged in to a tremendous panic at the news of Nathan Meyer Rothschild's death, to which the words referred. The adoption of the telegraph and the civil war in America operated as great incentives to the ad vancement and improvement of cryptography. As the telegraph came into use, the necessity af sec recy became apparent to those persons who bur dened the wires with messages of import. Inven tion supplied codes, consisting of letters trans posed, of figures substituted for letters, of a pecu liar arrangement of words, and the like. Gradually the art progressed, until, in the early days of the rebellion, was invented one of the best—possibly the very best—cipher codes ever built. Its author was Gen. Anson Stager, assisted by Col. Lynch and several of his aids. This code was very flexible— that is, its capacities of expression covered a wide range; its principles once understood, it was com paratively simple, and without the key a message written in it was an impenetrable secret. It was the first code in whieh phrases were determined by a single word, and from this peculiarity it was called by its inventors an arbitrary cipher. Thus the expression “Hood is coming North” was indicated by the word “Brute;” “Animals in poor condition” by “Adam.” Every phrase and sentence describing the condition of field and camp, the state of the army, movements of the enemy; every event and incident likely to occur was de scribed by A SINGLE ARBITRARY WORD. Names ot places, states, counties, townships; the names of all prominent individuals in civil and military life in the country were all filled with code words. This, of itself, constituted a cipher prac tically impossible to read. But, not content with one band of secrecy, the inventors provided two. A system of arranging the message, after it had been turned into cipher, was included in the code. The arrangement was in a square, divided by verti cal and parallel lines, called respectively routes and lines, into smaller squares. In every separate in stance the arrangement varied, and its peculiarity was that until the last word of the message was translated, the key word did not appear, and the proper arrangement was not manifest. This won derful code was known and understood by not over two hundred persons. The cipher operators of the United States Military Telegraph Corps were its custodians. One of them was attached to the staff of each division commander, but even the com manding general of the army was as ignorant of the code as the veriest shoulder-strapper. To guard against the contingencies of an operator's capture, or of a copy of the code being secured, the code was divided into twelve books, each set numbered and being made up of OFFICE, NO. 11 FRANKFORT ST. A TOTALLY DIFFERENT SET OF WORDS. Book No. 2 was dropped in a Southern river, and book No. 9 was captured, with its custodian, an operator named Mcßeynolds. He chewed and swal lowed six leaves of it before the rebels seized and wrested it from his grasp. Their capture was of small advantage of them, however. An arrange ment was in force which made the disappearance of an operation known immediately by General Stager, and within twelve hours after Mcßeynolds’s cap ture, book No. 9 was abandoned by the army. At the close of the war the army cipher, minus the arrangement of routes and lines, which is mani festly too complicated for ordinary uses, came into wide service among merchants and individuals who patronize the telegraph. With scarcely an excep tion every commercial and governmental cipher is now built on the arbitrary plan. There are a vast number in use, each fitting one particular kind of business and none other. Their present object Is less to Insure secrecy than to serve the purposes of economy. A message oi perhaps sixty words may be condensed by means of an ordinarily copious cipher into ten. It is for this reason that telegraph com panies do not regard them with a lasting love and control their use by rules which limit the length of code words and also force their selection from Webster’s or other equally well-known dictionaries. The most copious cipher codes of the present day are the English cable ciphers. They are extraor dinary structures, one of them composing 30,000 words. Others are made up of syllables selected from living and dead languages, combined so as to make euphony. These express nearly everything, and beside effectually serve the purposes of abso lutely inviolable secrecy. All of these ciphers are constructed by persons who study the business to which they are adapted, from a scientific standpoint, and also from actual experience. Their labors are generally well repaid, a copious cipher for a firm's exclusive use being considered worth from SSOO to SI,OOO. The inventor of one code largely used in the grain business in this city has acquired a comfortable competence from its sale. Several cipher makers in this city do a flourishing business, and there are dealers in nineteenth century jargons in New Orleans who ibriveffoin their works It has been said that no ciphe? was ever invented which would not yield to patient study. Such statements are rarely confirmed. There is, in fact, no well established instance of any arbi trary word-cipher having been deciphered without a key. Granted a familiarity with its probable meaning, it is hard to see bow, out of the immense range of commercial expressions, the proper words and sentences may be discovered in half a dozen disconnected, meaningless words. THE CELEBRATED CIPHER TELEGRAMS which were transmitted from Gramercy Park in 1876 were in a code long since abandoned as too easy to decipher. It is known as the dictionary code, from the fact that a dictionary is its basis and key. In writing a message in this code the proper word is first found in the dictionary agreed on, and its cipher synonym is the word on the same line from the top on the fourth preceding page. With some familiarity with cryptograhy and a keen wit to aid him, it is not remarkable that the clever journalist who gave the hidden meaning of the telegrams to the world had little difficulty in finding their import. Had they been couched in an arbitrary code it is more than probable that their contents would have remained a mystery to the crack of doom. Bradford’s Saloon. A CASE THATINTERESTS WHITES AS WELL AS BLACKS. Winfield Bradford, colored, was charged with keeping a gambling establishment, at No. 492 Seventh avenue. Letters had been received by Capt. Carpenter, of the Twentieth Precinct, and he gave the case to Officer Evanboe to work up. After a close watch on the place for several nights, finding what he supposed evidences of gambling, he returned to the station-house, got a squad of men, and raided the place, Twenty-seven negroes, with the boss, Bradford, were arrested. The negroes found in the place were discharged, but Bradford was held to answer. He keeps a small liquor saloon, and an apartment in the rear. Evanhoe on being sworn, said on the 21st ult., he arrested the defendant. The crowd in the back room were playing cards, and throwing dice on the billiard table. This was about ten o’clock at night. The prisoner stood at the box with the chips aqd dice, and took the chips off the table. He saw no money change hands, and no money on the table, only chips, when the raid was made. Half an hour before that he saw money on the table from where he stood in the rear, looking through the window shutter. He then saw each man chuck down five cents, the dice were thrown, and some one scooped up the pot. Prisoner threw the dice. Cross-examined: He saw the dice thrown on the table, and the crowd around it were engaged in the play. •* Do you know whether that money was put up as a bet, or a wager ?” asked counsel. “ No.” “ You can’t say that it was a game of chanoe ?” remarked Justice Patterson. “ No; but I considered it was, when they were playing with chips.” “You saw money some time during the eve ning ?” continued Patterson; “ money on the table, dice throwing and money picked up ?” “Yes, sir.” •’Do you mean to say that that money was played in a game of chance ?” asked counsel. “I would consider that that was a game of chance,” replied the officer. “They passed the money up and threw the dice.” “Do you know whether it was put there for any gaming purpose?” continued counsel, •'No.” “You heard no remarks ?” •'No; I was ten feet off, outsido, looking through the blinds.” “This was a public room?” asked Justice Ford. “Yes, sir; back of the bar. You entered from the street.” “Anybody could get iu ?” said counsel. “Yes, sir.” Counsel said there was no evidence that they were there for gambling purposes. They might have been throwing for drinks, and on that evidence they could raid every drinking saloon in the city. “Was there any other game going on?” asked Justice Ford. “They were playing cards,” replied the officer. “Did any money change hands?” asked the Jus tice. “No; they had chips.” “What do you mean by chips?” asked Justice Power. “Little bits of celluloid.” “These men had no money ? ’ said Justice Ford. “No; they had chips.” “Any other witnesses?” “ No.” The defendant, Bradford, took the stand and swore that he didn’t keep a gambling-house. They were only playing “seven up;” no money passed. It was impossible to see that from the outside. He knew of no dice playing for money; he allowed nothing but billiards and pool. “That can be gambling?” remarked Justice Pat terson. Counsel said it wasn't. In answer to counsel, defendant said* there was no game of chance played in his place. The Court said there was a doubt, and discharged the accused. Christianizing a Mistress. ISAAC’S OPINION OF BIS RIGHTS. Isaac Putnam and Martha Cross lived together as man and wife. They had a “little difference,” and she being mistress only, he boss, he thought he had the right to bring her to his way of thinking, and that he did by knocking her down, and when she got up he ordered her on her knees, drew a knife, and flourishing it over her head, commanded her to swear eternal fealty to him. “She had been out all night with two men,” said Isaac. “She was drunk and I chastised her.” “What right had you to do that?” asked the Court. “We had lived as man and wife for a year,” said Isaac. “Suppose you had; what right had you to as sault the woman ?” asked the Court “I was out of my mind for the hour,” replied Isaac, very sheepishly. “When I argued with her very peaceably, I couldn’t keep her hand from my throat, when I said she should behave herself, o, how I tried to win that woman’s love and get her back to the paths of righteousness,” said Isaac, clasping his hands. “It was with hard blows he tried to evangelize,” said the woman. “She deliberately struck me In the mouth when I tried to lure her back to virtue. She stabbed m® and struck me in the eye when I was trying to christianize her.” “ Where’s the scar of a stab ?” said the woman. “Ihain’t got it now,” said Isaac. “All things in time, heal.” “If I cut him, the Court can see it was with the back of the knife,” said the woman with a laugh. “It’s nothing to smile at,” said Isaac. “ After she ran out four officers came in when I was in bed. ‘ Where art thou, Isaac,’ said one of the officers. ‘ Here I is,’ I said. • Get up,’ said another officer, • this is the day of judgment.’ Then Martha came in and they said, • Is that the man ?’ She said • yea.’ And they yanked me out of bed quicker’n light ning. She had no cause for this persecution,” said “ What do you say to that, Martha ?” asked the Court. “Mr. Jones had a grandson, and became in to see about a shirt. It wasn't done. I said wait, it ain’t done. He went out for a pint of beer, and I Isaac got jealous.’’ Have you been supporting him ?” asked the 1 Court. •'Not ’zactly. When I didn’t give him money, he pawned my clothes, and that supported him. He hasn’t worked in six years.” “ Three month’s.” said the Court. PRICE FIVE CENTS. SPOKEN AFTER SORROW. BY JULIET C. MARSH. I know of something sweeter than the chime Of fairy-bells that run Down mellow winds. O I fairer than the time You sing about in happy broken rhyme, Of butterflies and sun. But O ! as many fabled leagues away As to-morrow when the east breaks gray— Is this which lies somewhere most still and far, Between the sunset and the dawn’s last star, And known as yesterday. I know of something better, dearer, too, Than the first rose you hold; All sweet with June and dainty with the dew, The Summer’s perfect promise breathing through Its white leaves’ tender fold. O 1 better, when the late winds gathering slow Behind the night and moaning sad and low Across the world, shall make its music dumb, Oh I dearer than this earliest rose to come Will be the last to go. I know of something sadder than this nest Of broken eggs you bring, With such sweet trouble stirring at your b east. For love undone—the mother bird’s unrest That yesterday could sing. My little child, too, grieved to want my kiss, Du forget the sweetness they will miss Who built the home ? My heart with yours mal moan. But, O ! that nest, from which the birds have flo’W Is sadder far than this. aaggniimim pmaaimreraaa [This story was begun in No. 47 of the Dispatc Back numbers can be obtained at the Dispatch of fice, or from any newsdealer.] (foitin# Storn. A WOMAN’S HATE. BY A WELL-KNOWN AUTHOR. CHAPTER XV. “ WHATEVER TRIALS AND MISFORTUNES COME UPON US, YOU AND I ARE ONE.” Five days after Lord Glenroyal’s receipt ol the anonymous letter, at about five o’clock in the afternoon, Harriet Crane stands in her lis ter's boudoir, anxiously waiting for some one. “They have been in the house more than an hour,” she cries, with a frowning glance at the pretty painted clock. “ How stupid, how tire some Ethelind is ! She might know I wanted to speak to her, though I fervently hope she does not guess what I want to find out.” She listens eagerly as the rustle of a dress sounds in the corridor, but it passes on, the door does not open, and she bites her thin lip savagely. “Thia waiting is intolerable I What does it mean? Nothing has been said, nothing done. Marcella looks insolently happy, Fergus is here in dutiful attendance still, and yet Lord Glen royal had my letter nearly a week ago. Is it possible that he has consented to swallow his pride, and hopes to hush up the whole matter That he shall never do—he will have me to reckon with there I But that can hardly be— the man’s pride is like a rock. He is fond ot Marcella, I know, but affection with him would count for nothing in such a case as this—nay, he would be more ready to make ,the sacrifice, because it cost him keen personal pain. No; there is some mystery. 1 shall go mad, I think, if Linda does not come soon.” This catastrophe at least is averted, for at that moment Lady Rushton opens the door. Smiling, sweet-tempered, radiant, she forms a complete contract to her feverishly-excited sis ter. “ Well, Hattie,” she says, kissing the thin sallow cheek, and wondering a little at its feverish heat, “are you not pleased to have us home again? lam glad to be back, 1 assure you.” “ I am tired of waiting,” is the brusque an swer. “ What made you dawdle about so long, Ethelind?” “ Lady Rushton opens her innocent eyes. “We could not come sooner; slight as his injuries were, Doctor Craven did not think it well to move James until to-day.” “I was not thinking of Sir James, his injuries, or your stay in town,” Harriet breaks in with a hysterical laugh. “Why did you keep me wait ing so long? lam dying to talk things over.” Lady Rushton is more and more puzzled. “My dear Hattie, I told you everything in my letters, though, of course, a nice cosy chat is always pleasant. But there really is nc news; Sir James, as you can see, is almost him self again.” There are tears of irritation and helpless anger in Harriet’s strangely-shining eyes as she says, with a passionate stamp of her foot: “ Always Sir James 1 You are like a girl with her first lover, Linda. Sir James has been all important ior nearly a week. For Heaven’s sake think and speak of something else now 1 I beg your pardon. I should not have said that, but, of course, 1 knew all cause for anxiety was past. lam worried, and not very well, I think, to-day.” Harriot does indeed look worn, ill, haggard; more than that, she looks like a person de voured by a consuming anxiety. As Lady Rushton notices these things, she at once for gives her sister. “My dear Hattie, I was quite as short-tem pered as you,” she says, with her pretty coax ing smile. “ And, as I am neither troubled nor ill now, lam the more to blame. But what worries you ?—not Mr. Turberville, I hope ?” “Mr. Turberville I” Harriet echoes contemptu ously. “ No; he is in very good training, I assure you. By-the-way, what of that other pair of lovers, Linda ? Did you and Marcella see much of Mr. Glenroy while you were in town ?” If Lady Rushton were not the most unsus picious of women, she must needs be struck with the abrupt change ot subject, tne exag gerated carelessness of tone, but she only thinks that Harriet has dropped her uncomfortable manner, and grown sociable. "Only every day, and all day long,” she says, smiling pleasantly, and never dreaming of the barbed arrows she sends home with every jest ing word., “ Fergus is a most devoted lover. If he is only as good a husband, Marcella will indeed be a lucky girl—a happy wife.” Miss Crane grinds her teeth savagely, and with a strong effort keeps back the words of cruel scorn and bitter hate that straggle to her lips. So far, at least, she knows that she has failed. Fergus Glenroy knows all -he must know all—and yet he is true to his promise still; he has never given Marcella a hint of the terri ble discovery he has made. Only one of two things, then, is possible—either he proudly dis believes the story, or, believing it, is still ready to give the shelter of his honored name to Kathleen Carroll’s child. “Butthat he shall never do. I will save him, in spite of himself,” she says inwardly. “If he disbelieves, I will prove my story—no matter what it costs me. It he chooses to dis regard it, I will fight him with another wjapon.