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University of California Berkeley 
 
Stories by American Authors. 
 v. 
 
* # * The Stories in this volume are pro- 
 tected by copyright, and are printed here 
 by the authority of the authors or their 
 representatives. 
 
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Stories by 
 American Authors 
 
 V. 
 
 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 By HENRY JAMES. 
 
 YATIL. 
 
 By F. D. MILLET. 
 
 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 By PARK BENJAMIN. 
 
 WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 
 
 By GEORGE ARNOLD. 
 
 THE TACHYPOMP. 
 
 By E. P. MITCHELL. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 1891 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1884, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 1, 173 Macdougal Street, New York 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 BY HENRY JAMES. 
 
 " And I what I seem to my friend, you see 
 
 What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess. 
 What I seem to myself, do you ask of me ? 
 No hero, I confess." 
 
 A Light Woman. Browning $ Men and Women* 
 
 APRIL 4, 1857. I have changed my sky with- 
 out changing my mind. I resume these old 
 notes in a new world. I hardly know of what use 
 they are ; but it's easier to stick to the habit than 
 to drop it. I have been at home now a week at 
 home, forsooth ! And yet, after all, it is home. I 
 am dejected, I am bored, I am blue. How can a 
 man be more at home than that ? Nevertheless, I 
 am the citizen of a great country, and for that 
 matter, of a great city. I walked to-day some ten 
 miles or so along Broadway, and on the whole I 
 don't blush for my native land. We are a capable 
 
 ** The Galaxy , July, 1869. 
 
6 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 race and a good-looking withal ; and I don't see why 
 we shouldn't prosper as well as another. This, by 
 the way, ought to be a very encouraging reflection. 
 A capable fellow and a good-looking withal ; I 
 don't see why he shouldn't die a millionaire. At 
 all events he must do something. When a man 
 has, at thirty-two, a net income of considerably 
 less than nothing, he can scarcely hope to overtake 
 a fortune before he himself is overtaken by age and 
 philosophy two deplorable obstructions. I am 
 afraid that one of them has already planted itself 
 in my path. What am I ? What do I wish ? 
 Whither do I tend ? What do I believe ? I am 
 constantly beset by these impertinent whisperings. 
 Formerly it was enough that I was Maximus Aus- 
 tin ; that I was endowed with a cheerful mind and 
 a good digestion ; that one day or another, when I 
 had come to the end, I should return to America 
 and begin at the beginning ; that, meanwhile, ex- 
 istence was sweet in in the Rue Tronchet. But 
 now / Has the sweetness really passed out of life ? 
 Have I eaten the plums and left nothing but the 
 bread and milk and corn-starch, or whatever the 
 horrible concoction is ? I had it to-day for dinner. 
 Pleasure, at least, I imagine pleasure pure and 
 simple, pleasure crude, brutal and vulgar this 
 poor flimsy delusion has lost all its charm. I shall 
 never again care for certain things and indeed for 
 certain persons. Of such things, of such persons, 
 I firmly maintain, however, that I was never an 
 enthusiastic votary. It would be more to my 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 7 
 
 credit, I suppose, if I had been. More would be 
 forgiven me if I had loved a little more, if into all 
 my folly and egotism I had put a little more na'ivett 
 and sincerity. Well, I did the best I could, I was 
 at once too bad and too good for it all. At pres- 
 ent, it's far enough off ; I have put the sea between 
 us ; I arri stranded. I sit high and dry, scanning 
 the horizon for a friendly sail, or waiting for a 
 high tide to set me afloat. The wave of pleasure 
 has deposited me here in the sand. Shall I owe 
 my rescue to the wave of pain ? At moments I 
 feel a kind of longing to expiate my stupid little 
 sins. I see, as through a glass, darkly, the beauty 
 of labor and love. Decidedly, I am willing to 
 work. It's written. 
 
 jth. My sail is in sight ; it's at hand ; I have 
 all but boarded the vessel. I received this morn- 
 ing a letter from the best man in the world. Here 
 it is : 
 
 DEAR MAX : I see this very moment, in an old newspaper 
 which had already passed through my hands without yielding 
 up its most precious item, the announcement of your arrival in 
 New York. To think of your having perhaps missed the wel- 
 come you had a right to expect from me ! Here it is, dear Max 
 as cordial as you please. When I say I have just read of your 
 arrival, I mean that twenty minutes have elapsed by the clock. 
 These have been spent in conversation with my excellent friend 
 Mr. Sloane we having taken the liberty of making you the 
 topic. I haven't time to say more about Frederick Sloane than 
 that he is very anxious to make your acquaintance, and that, 
 if your time is not otherwise engaged, he would like you very 
 much to spend a month with him. He is an excellent host, or I 
 
8 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 shouldn't be here myself. It appears that he knew your moth- 
 er very intimately, and he has a taste for visiting the amenities 
 of the parents upon the children ; the original ground of my 
 own connection with him was that he had been a particular friend 
 of my father. You may have heard your mother speak of him. 
 He is a very strange old fellow, but you will like him. Whether 
 or no you come for his sake, come for mine. 
 
 Yours always, THEODORE LISLE. 
 
 Theodore's letter is of course very kind, but it's 
 remarkably obscure. My mother may have had 
 the highest regard for Mr. Sloane, but she never 
 mentioned his name in my hearing. Who is he, 
 what is he, and what is the nature of his relations 
 with Theodore ? I shall learn betimes. I have 
 written to Theodore that I gladly accept (I believe 
 I suppressed the " gladly" though) his friend's in- 
 vitation, and that I shall immediately present my- 
 self. What can I do that is better ? Speaking 
 sordidly, I shall obtain food and lodging while I 
 look about me. I shall have a base of operations. 
 D., it appears, is a long day's journey, but en- 
 chanting when you reach it. I am curious to see 
 an enchanting American town. And to stay a 
 month ! Mr. Frederick Sloane, whoever you are, 
 vous faites bien les choses, and the little that I know 
 of you is very much to your credit. You enjoyed 
 the friendship of my dear mother, you possess the 
 esteem of the virtuous Theodore, you commend 
 yourself to my own affection. At this rate, I shall 
 not grudge it. 
 
 D , i4th. I have been here since Thursday 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 9 
 
 evening three days. As we rattled up to the tav- 
 ern in the village, I perceived from the top of the 
 coach, in the twilight, Theodore beneath the porch, 
 scanning the vehicle, with all his amiable disposi- 
 tion in his eyes. He has grown older, of course, in 
 these five years, but less so than I had expected. 
 His is one of those smooth, unwrinkled souls that 
 keep their bodies fair and fresh. As tall as ever, 
 moreover, and as lean and clean. How short and 
 fat and dark and debauched he makes one feel ! 
 By nothing he says or means, of course, but merely 
 by his old unconscious purity and simplicity that 
 slender straightness which makes him remind you 
 of the spire of an English abbey. He greeted me 
 with smiles, and stares, and alarming blushes. He 
 assures me that he never would have known me, 
 and that five years have altered me sehr ! I asked 
 him if it were for the better ? He looked at me 
 hard for a moment, with his eyes of blue, and then, 
 for an answer, he blushed again. 
 
 On my arrival we agreed to walk over from the 
 village. He dismissed his wagon with my luggage, 
 and we went arm-in-arm through the dusk. The 
 town is seated at the foot of certain mountains, 
 whose names I have yet to learn, and at the head 
 of a big sheet of water, which, as yet, too, I know 
 only as " the Lake." The road hitherward soon 
 leaves the village and wanders in rural loveliness 
 by the margin of this expanse. Sometimes the 
 water is hidden by clumps of trees, behind which 
 we heard it lapping and gurgling in the darkness ; 
 
io A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 sometimes it stretches out from your feet in shin- 
 ing vagueness, as if it were tired of making, all 
 day, a million little eyes at the great stupid hills. 
 The walk from the tavern takes some half an hour, 
 and in this interval Theodore made his position a 
 little more clear. Mr. Sloane is a rich old wid- 
 ower ; his age is seventy-two, and as his health is 
 thoroughly broken, is practically even greater ; and 
 his fortune Theodore, characteristically, doesn't 
 know anything definite about that. It's probably 
 about a million. He has lived much in Europe, 
 and in the " great world ;" he has had adventures 
 and passions and all that sort of thing ; and now, 
 in the evening of his days, like an old French 
 diplomatist, he takes it into his head to write his 
 memoirs. To this end he has lured poor Theodore 
 to his gruesome side, to mend his pens for him. 
 He has been a great scribbler, says Theodore, all 
 his days, and he proposes to incorporate a large 
 amount of promiscuous literary matter into these 
 souvenirs intimes. Theodore's principal function 
 seems to be to get him to leave things out. In 
 fact, the poor youth seems troubled in conscience. 
 His patron's lucubrations have taken the turn of 
 many other memoirs, and have ceased to address 
 themselves virginibus puerisque. On the whole, he 
 declares they are a very odd mixture a medley of 
 gold and tinsel, of bad taste and good sense. I 
 can readily understand it. The old man bores me, 
 puzzles me, and amuses me. 
 
 He was in waiting to receive me. We found him 
 
A LIGHT MAN. n 
 
 in his library which, by the way, is simply the 
 most delightful apartment that I ever smoked a 
 cigar in a room arranged for a lifetime. At one 
 end stands a great fireplace, with a florid, fantastic 
 mantelpiece in carved white marble an importa- 
 tion, of course, and, as one may say, an interpola- 
 tion ; the groundwork of the house, the " fixtures,'* 
 being throughout plain, solid and domestic. 
 Over the mantel-shelf is a large landscape, a fine 
 Gainsborough, full of the complicated harmonies 
 of an English summer. Beneath it stands a row of 
 bronzes of the Renaissance and potteries of the 
 Orient. Facing the door, as you enter, is an im- 
 mense window set in a recess, with cushioned seats 
 and large clear panes, stationed as it were at the 
 very apex of the lake (which forms an almost per- 
 fect oval) and commanding a view of its whole ex- 
 tent. At the other end, opposite the fireplace, the 
 wall is studded, from floor to ceiling, with choice 
 foreign paintings, placed in relief against the ortho- 
 dox crimson screen. Elsewhere the walls are cov- 
 ered with books, arranged neither in formal regu- 
 larity nor quite helter-skelter, but in a sort of 
 genial incongruity, which tells that sooner or later 
 each volume feels sure of leaving the ranks and re- 
 turning into different company. Mr. Sloane makes 
 use of his books. His two passions, according to 
 Theodore, are reading and talking ; but to talk he 
 must have a book in his hand. The charm of the 
 room lies in the absence of certain pedantic tones 
 the browns, blacks and grays which distinguish 
 
12 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 most libraries. The apartment is of the feminine 
 gender. There are half a dozen light colors scat- 
 tered about pink in the carpet, tender blue in the 
 curtains, yellow in the chairs. The result is a gen- 
 eral look of brightness and lightness ; it expresses 
 even a certain cynicism. You perceive the place 
 to be the home, not of a man of learning, but of a 
 man of fancy. 
 
 He rose from his chair the man of fancy, to 
 greet me the man of fact. As I looked at him, in 
 the lamplight, it seemed to me, for the first five 
 minutes, that I had seldom seen an uglier little 
 person. It took me five minutes to get the point 
 of view ; then I began to admire. He is diminu- 
 tive, or at best of my own moderate stature, and 
 bent and contracted with his seventy years ; lean 
 and delicate, moreover, and very highly finished. 
 He is curiously pale, with a kind of opaque yellow 
 pallor. Literally, it's a magnificent yellow. His 
 skin is of just the hue and apparent texture of some 
 old crumpled Oriental scroll. I know a dozen 
 painters who would give more than they have to 
 arrive at the exact " tone" of his thick-veined, 
 bloodless hands, his polished ivory knuckles. His 
 eyes are circled with red, but in the battered little 
 setting of their orbits they have the lustre of old 
 sapphires. His nose, owing to the falling away of 
 other portions of his face, has assumed a grotesque, 
 unnatural prominence ; it describes an immense 
 arch, gleaming like a piece of parchment stretched 
 on ivory. He has, apparently, all his teeth, but 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 13 
 
 has muffled his cranium in a dead black wig ; of 
 course he's clean shaven. In his dress he has a 
 muffled, wadded look and an apparent aversion to 
 linen, inasmuch as none is visible on his person. 
 He seems neat enough, but not fastidious. At 
 first, as I say, I fancied him monstrously ugly ; but 
 on further acquaintance I perceived that what I 
 had taken for ugliness is nothing but the incom- 
 plete remains of remarkable good looks. The line 
 of his features is pure ; his nose, cczteris paribus, 
 would be extremely handsome ; his eyes are the 
 oldest eyes I ever saw, and yet they are wonder- 
 fully living. He has something remarkably insin- 
 uating. 
 
 He offered his two hands, as Theodore intro- 
 duced me ; I gave him my own, and he stood smil- 
 ing at me like some quaint old image in ivory and 
 ebony, scanning my face with a curiosity which he 
 took no pains to conceal. " God bless me," he 
 said, at last, " how much you look like your 
 father !" I sat down, and for half an hour we 
 talked of many things of my journey, of my im- 
 pressions of America, of my reminiscences of Eu- 
 rope, and, by implication, of my prospects. His 
 voice is weak and cracked, but he makes it express 
 everything. Mr. Sloane is not yet in his dotage 
 oh no ! He nevertheless makes himself out a poor 
 creature. In reply to an inquiry of mine about his 
 health, he favored me with a long list of his infirm- 
 ities (some of which are very trying, certainly) and 
 assured me that he was quite finished. 
 
14 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 " I live out of mere curiosity," he said. 
 
 "I have heard of people dying from the same 
 motive." 
 
 He looked at me a moment, as if to ascertain 
 whether I were laughing at him. And then, after 
 a pause, " Perhaps you don't know that I disbe- 
 lieve in a future life," he remarked, blandly. 
 
 At these words Theodore got up and walked to 
 the fire. 
 
 " Well, we shan't quarrel about that," said I. 
 Theodore turned round, staring. 
 
 "Do you mean that you agree with me?" the 
 old man asked. 
 
 " I certainly haven't come here to talk theology ! 
 Don't ask me to disbelieve, and I'll never ask you 
 to believe." 
 
 " Come," cried Mr. Sloane, rubbing his hands, 
 " you'll not persuade me you are a Christian like 
 your friend Theodore there." 
 
 " Like Theodore assuredly not." And then, 
 somehow, I don't know why, at the thought of 
 Theodore's Christianity I burst into a laugh. 
 " Excuse me, my dear fellow," I said, " you know, 
 for the last ten years I have lived in pagan lands." 
 
 " What do you call pagan?" asked Theodore, 
 smiling. 
 
 I saw the old man, with his hands locked, eying 
 me shrewdly, and waiting for my answer. I hesi- 
 tated a moment, and then I said, " Everything that 
 makes life tolerable !" 
 
 Hereupon Mr. Sloane began to laugh till he 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 15 
 
 coughed. Verily, I thought, if he lives for curi- 
 osity, he's easily satisfied. 
 
 We went into dinner, and this repast showed me 
 that some of his curiosity is culinary. I observed, 
 by the way, that for a victim of neuralgia, dyspep- 
 sia, and a thousand other ills, Mr. Sloane plies a 
 most inconsequential knife and fork. Sauces and 
 spices and condiments seem to be the chief of his 
 diet. After dinner he dismissed us, in considera- 
 tion of my natural desire to see my friend in pri- 
 vate. Theodore has capital quarters a downy 
 bedroom and a snug little salon. We talked till 
 near midnight of ourselves, of each other, and 
 of the author of the memoirs, down stairs. That 
 is, I spoke of myself, and Theodore listened ; and 
 then Theodore descanted upon Mr. Sloane, and I 
 listened. His commerce with the old man has 
 sharpened his wits. Sloane has taught him to 
 observe and judge, and Theodore turns round, 
 observes, judges him ! He has become quite the 
 critic and analyst. There is something very pleas- 
 ant in the discriminations of a conscientious mind, 
 in which criticism is tempered by an angelic char- 
 ity. Only, it may easily end by acting on one's 
 nerves. At midnight we repaired to the library, 
 to take leave of our host till the morrow an at- 
 tention which, under all circumstances, he rigidly 
 exacts. As I gave him my hand he held it again 
 and looked at me as he had done on my arrival. 
 " Bless my soul," he said, at last, " how much you 
 look like your mother !'* 
 
1 6 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 To-night, at the end of my third day, I begin to 
 feel decidedly at home. The fact is, I am remark- 
 ably comfortable. The house is pervaded by an 
 indefinable, irresistible love of luxury and privacy. 
 Mr. Frederick Sloane is a horribly corrupt old 
 mortal. Already in his relaxing presence I have 
 become heartily reconciled to doing nothing. But 
 with Theodore on one side standing there like a 
 tall interrogation-point I honestly believe I can 
 defy Mr. Sloane on the other. The former asked 
 me this morning, with visible solicitude, in allu- 
 sion to the bit of dialogue I have quoted above on 
 matters of faith, whether I am really a materialist 
 whether I don't believe something ? I told him 
 I would believe anything he liked. He looked 
 at me a while, in friendly sadness. " I hardly 
 know whether you are not worse than Mr. Sloane," 
 he said. 
 
 But Theodore is, after all, in duty bound to give 
 a man a long rope in these matters. His own rope 
 is one of the longest. He reads Voltaire with Mr. 
 Sloane, and Emerson in his own room. He is the 
 stronger man of the two ; he has the larger stom- 
 ach. Mr. Sloane delights, of course, in Voltaire, 
 but he can't read a line of Emerson. Theodore 
 delights in Emerson, and enjoys Voltaire, though 
 he thinks him superficial. It appears that since we 
 parted in Paris, five years ago, his conscience has 
 dwelt in many lands. C'est tout une histoire which 
 he tells very prettily. He left college determined 
 to enter the church, and came abroad with his 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 17 
 
 mind full of theology and Tubingen. He appears 
 to have studied, not wisely but too well. Instead 
 of faith full-armed and serene, there sprang from 
 the labor of his brain a myriad sickly questions, 
 piping for answers. He went for a winter to Italy, 
 where, I take it, he was not quite so much afflicted 
 as he ought to have been at the sight of the beau- 
 tiful spiritual repose that he had missed. It was 
 after this that we spent those three months together 
 in Brittany the best-spent months of my long 
 residence in Europe. Theodore inoculated me, I 
 think, with some of his seriousness, and I just 
 touched him with my profanity ; and we agreed 
 together that there were a few good things left 
 health, friendship, a summer sky, and the lovely 
 byways of an old French province. He came 
 home, searched the Scriptures once more, accepted 
 a " call," and made an attempt to respond to it. 
 But the inner voice failed him. His outlook was 
 cheerless enough. During his absence his married 
 sister, the elder one, had taken the other to live 
 with her, relieving Theodore of the charge of con- 
 tribution to her support. But suddenly, behold the 
 husband, the brother-in-law, dies, leaving a mere 
 figment of property ; and the two ladies, with 
 their two little girls, are afloat in the wide world. 
 Theodore finds himself at twenty-six without an 
 income, without a profession, and with a family of 
 four females to support. Well, in his quiet way 
 he draws on his courage. The history of the two 
 years that passed before he came to Mr. Sloane is 
 
1 8 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 really absolutely edifying. He rescued his sisters 
 and nieces from the deep waters, placed them high 
 and dry, established them somewhere in decent 
 gentility and then found at last that his strength 
 had left him had dropped dead like an over- 
 ridden horse. In short, he had worked himself to 
 the bone. It was now his sisters' turn. They 
 nursed him with all the added tenderness of grati- 
 tude for the past and terror of the future, and 
 brought him safely through a grievous malady. 
 Meanwhile Mr. Sloane, having decided to treat 
 himself to a private secretary and suffered dread- 
 ful mischance in three successive experiments, had 
 heard of Theodore's situation and his merits ; had 
 furthermore recognized in him the son of an early 
 and intimate friend, and had finally offered him 
 the very comfortable position he now occupies. 
 There is a decided incongruity between Theodore 
 as a man as Theodore, in fine and the dear 
 fellow as the intellectual agent, confidant, com- 
 plaisant, purveyor, pander what you will of a 
 battered old cynic and dilettante a worldling if 
 there ever was one. There seems at first sight a 
 perfect want of agreement between his character 
 and his function. One is gold and the other brass, 
 or something very like it. But on reflection I can 
 enter into it his having, under the circumstances, 
 accepted Mr. Sloane' s offer and been content to do 
 his duties. Ce que c est de nous! Theodore's con- 
 tentment in such a case is a theme for the moralist 
 a better moralist than I. The best and purest 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 19 
 
 mortals are an odd mixture, and in none of us does 
 honesty exist on its own terms. Ideally, Theodore 
 hasn't the smallest business dans cette galere. It 
 offends my sense of propriety to find him here. I 
 feel that I ought to notify him as a friend that he 
 has knocked at the wrong door, and that he had 
 better retreat before he is brought to the blush. 
 However, I suppose he might as well be here as 
 reading Emerson "evenings" in the back parlor, 
 to those two very plain sisters judging from their 
 photographs. Practically it hurts no one not to be 
 too much of a prig. Poor Theodore was weak, 
 depressed, out of work. Mr. Sloane offers him a 
 lodging and a salary in return for after all, merely 
 a little tact. All he has to do is to read to the old 
 man, lay down the book a while, with his finger in 
 the place, and let him talk ; take it up again, read 
 another dozen pages and submit to another com- 
 mentary. Then to write a dozen pages under his 
 dictation to suggest a word, polish off a period, 
 or help him out with a complicated idea or a half- 
 remembered fact. This is all, I say ; and yet this 
 is much. Theodore's apparent success proves it to 
 be much, as well as the old man's satisfaction. It 
 is a part ; he has to simulate. Be has to " make 
 believe" a little a good deal ; he has to put his 
 pride in his pocket and send his conscience to the 
 wash. He has to be accommodating to listen 
 and pretend and flatter ; and he does it as well as 
 many a worse man does it far better than I. I 
 might bully the old man, but I don't think I could 
 
20 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 humor him. After all, however, it is not a matter 
 of comparative merit. In every son of woman 
 there are two men the practical man and the 
 dreamer. We live for our dreams but, mean- 
 while, we live by our wits. When the dreamer is 
 a poet, the other fellow is an artist. Theodore, at 
 bottom, is only a man of taste. If he were not des- 
 tined to become a high priest among moralists, he 
 might be a prince among connoisseurs. He plays 
 his part, therefore, artistically, with spirit, with 
 originality, with all his native refinement. How 
 can Mr. Sloane fail to believe that he possesses a 
 paragon ? He is no such fool as not to appreciate 
 a nature distinguee when it comes in his way. He 
 confidentially assured me this morning that Theo- 
 dore has the most charming mind in the world, 
 but that it's a pity he's so simple as not to suspect 
 it. If he only doesn't ruin him with his flattery ! 
 i9th. I am certainly fortunate among men. 
 This morning when, tentatively, I spoke of going 
 away, Mr. Sloane rose from his seat in horror and 
 declared that for the present I must regard his 
 house as my home. " Come, come," he said, 
 " when you leave this place where do you intend 
 to go?" Where, indeed? I graciously allowed 
 Mr. Sloane to have the best of the argument. 
 Theodore assures me that he appreciates these and 
 other affabilities, and that I have made what he 
 calls a " conquest" of his venerable heart. Poor, 
 battered, bamboozled old organ ! he would have 
 one believe that it has a most tragical record of 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 21 
 
 capture and recapture. At all events, it appears 
 that I am master of the citadel. For the present I 
 have no wish to evacuate. I feel, nevertheless, in 
 some far-off corner of my soul, that I ought to 
 shoulder my victorious banner and advance to 
 more fruitful triumphs. 
 
 I blush for my beastly laziness. It isn't that I 
 am willing to stay here a month, but that I am 
 willing to stay here six. Such is the charming, 
 disgusting truth. Have I really outlived the age 
 of energy ? Have I survived my ambition, my in- 
 tegrity, my self-respect ? Verily, I ought to have 
 survived the habit of asking myself silly questions. 
 I made up my mind long ago to go in for nothing 
 but present success ; and I don't care for that 
 sufficiently to secure it at the cost of temporary 
 suffering. I have a passion for nothing not even 
 for life. I know very well the appearance I make 
 in the world. I pass for a clever, accomplished, 
 capable, good-natured fellow, who can do any- 
 thing if he would only try. I am supposed to be 
 rather cultivated, to have latent talents. When I 
 was younger I used to find a certain entertain- 
 ment in the spectacle of human affairs. I liked to 
 see men and women hurrying on each other's heels 
 across the stage. But I am sick and tired of them 
 now ; not that I am a misanthrope, God forbid ! 
 They are not worth hating. I never knew but one 
 creature who was, and her I went and loved. To 
 be consistent, I ought to have hated my mother, 
 and now I ought to detest Theodore. But I don't 
 
22 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 truly, on the whole, I don't any more than I 
 dote on him. I firmly believe that it makes a 
 difference to him, his idea that I am fond of him. 
 He believes in that, as he believes in all the rest of 
 it in my culture, my latent talents, my underly- 
 ing " earnestness," my sense of beauty and love of 
 truth. Oh, for a man among them all a fellow 
 with eyes in his head eyes that would know me 
 for what I am and let me see they had guessed it. 
 Possibly such a fellow as that might get a " rise" 
 out of me. 
 
 In the name of bread and butter, what am I to 
 do ? (I was obliged this morning to borrow fifty 
 dollars from Theodore, who remembered gleefully 
 that he has been owing me a trifling sum for the 
 past four years, and in fact has preserved a note to 
 this effect.) Within the last week I have hatched 
 a desperate plan : I have made up my mind to 
 take a wife a rich one, bien entendu. Why not ac- 
 cept the goods of the gods ? It is not my fault, 
 after all, if I pass for a good fellow. Why not ad- 
 mit that practically, mechanically as I may say 
 maritally, I may be a good fellow ? I warrant my- 
 self kind. I should never beat my wife ; I don't 
 think I should even contradict her. Assume that 
 her fortune has the proper number of zeros and 
 that she herself is one of them, and I can even im- 
 agine her adoring me. I really think this is my 
 only way. Curiously, as I look back upon my 
 brief career, it all seems to tend to this consumma- 
 tion. It has its graceful curves and crooks, indeed, 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 23 
 
 and here and there a passionate tangent ; but on 
 the whole, if I were to unfold it here & la Hogarth, 
 what better legend could I scrawl beneath the 
 series of pictures than So-and-So's Progress to a 
 Mercenary Marriage ? 
 
 Coming events do what we all know with their 
 shadows. My noble fate is, perhaps, not far off. 
 I already feel throughout my person a magnificent 
 languor as from the possession of many dollars. 
 Or is it simply my sense of well-being in this per- 
 fectly appointed house ? Is it simply the contact 
 of the highest civilization I have known ? At all 
 events, the place is of velvet, and my only com- 
 plaint of Mr. Sloane is that, instead of an old wid- 
 ower, he's not an old widow (or a young maid), so 
 that I might marry him, survive him, and dwell 
 forever in this rich and mellow home. As I write 
 here, at my bedroom table, I have only to stretch 
 out an arm and raise the window-curtain to see 
 the thick-planted garden budding and breathing 
 and growing in the silvery silence. Far above in the 
 liquid darkness rolls the brilliant ball of the moon ; 
 beneath, in its light, lies the lake, in murmuring, 
 troubled sleep ; round about, the mountains, look- 
 ing strange and blanched, seem to bare their heads 
 and undrape their shoulders. So much for mid- 
 night. To-morrow the scene will be lovely with 
 the beauty of day. Under one aspect or another I 
 have it always before me. At the end of the gar- 
 den is moored a boat, in which Theodore and I 
 have indulged in an immense deal of irregular 
 
24 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 navigation. What lovely landward coves and 
 bays what alder-smothered creeks what lily- 
 sheeted pools what sheer steep hillsides, making 
 the water dark and quiet where they hang. I con- 
 fess that in these excursions Theodore looks after 
 the boat and I after the scenery. Mr. Sloane 
 avoids the water on account of the dampness, he 
 says ; because he's afraid of drowning, I suspect. 
 
 22d. Theodore is right. The bonhomme has 
 taken me into his favor. I protest I don't see how 
 he was to escape it. Je Fai bien soigne, as they say 
 in Paris. I don't blush for it. In one coin or an- 
 other I must repay his hospitality which is cer- 
 tainly very liberal. Theodore dots his I's, crosses 
 his /'s, verifies his quotations ; while I set traps for 
 that famous " curiosity." This speaks vastly well 
 for my powers. He pretends to be surprised at 
 nothing, and to possess in perfection poor, pitia- 
 ble old fop the art of keeping his countenance; 
 but repeatedly, I know, I have made him stare. 
 As for his corruption, which I spoke of above, it's 
 a very pretty piece of wickedness, but it strikes me 
 as a purely intellectual matter. I imagine him 
 never to have had any real senses. He may have 
 been unclean ; morally, he's not very tidy now ; 
 but he never can have been what the French call a 
 viveur. He's too delicate, he's of a feminine turn ; 
 and what woman was ever a viveur ? He likes to 
 sit in his chair and read scandal, talk scandal, 
 make scandal, so far as he may without catching a 
 cold or bringing on a headache. I already feel as 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 25 
 
 if I had known him a lifetime. I read him as 
 clearly as if I had. I know the type to which he 
 belongs ; I have encountered, first and last, a good 
 many specimens of it. He's neither more nor less 
 than a gossip a gossip flanked by a coxcomb and 
 an egotist. He's shallow, vain, cold, superstitious, 
 timid, pretentious, capricious : a pretty list of 
 foibles ! And yet, for all this, he has his good 
 points. His caprices are sometimes generous, and 
 his rebellion against the ugliness of life frequently 
 makes him do kind things. His memory (for tri- 
 fles) is remarkable, and (where his own perform- 
 ances are not involved) his taste is excellent. He 
 has no courage for evil more than for good. He is 
 the victim, however, of more illusions with regard 
 to himself than I ever knew a single brain to shel- 
 ter. At the age of twenty, poor, ignorant and 
 remarkably handsome, he married a woman of im- 
 mense wealth, many years his senior. At the end 
 of three years she very considerately took herself 
 off and left him to the enjoyment of his freedom 
 and riches. If he had remained poor he might 
 from time to time have rubbed at random against 
 the truth, and would be able to recognize the touch 
 of it. But he wraps himself in his money as in a 
 wadded dressing-gown, and goes trundling through 
 life on his little gold wheels. The greater part of 
 his career, from the time of his marriage till about 
 ten years ago, was spent in Europe, which, super- 
 ficially, he knows very well. He has lived in fifty 
 places, known thousands of people, and spent 
 
26 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 a very large fortune. At one time, I believe, he 
 spent considerably too much, trembled for an instant 
 on the verge of a pecuniary crash, but recovered 
 himself, and found himself more frightened than 
 hurt, yet audibly recommended to lower his pitch. 
 He passed five years in a species of penitent seclu- 
 sion on the lake of I forget what (his genius seems 
 to be partial to lakes), and laid the basis of his 
 present magnificent taste for literature. I can't 
 call him anything but magnificent in this respect, 
 so long as he must have his punctuation done by a 
 nature distinguee. At the close of this period, by 
 economy, he had made up his losses. His turning 
 the screw during those relatively impecunious 
 years represents, I am pretty sure, the only act of 
 resolution of his life. It was rendered possible by 
 his morbid, his actually pusillanimous dread of 
 poverty ; he doesn't feel safe without half a million 
 between him and starvation. Meanwhile he had 
 turned from a young man into an old man ; his 
 health was broken, his spirit was jaded, and I im- 
 agine, to do him justice, that he began to feel cer- 
 tain natural, filial longings for this dear American 
 mother of us all. They say the most hopeless tru- 
 ants and triflers have come to it. He came to it, 
 at all events ; he packed up his books and pictures 
 and gimcracks, and bade farewell to Europe. This 
 house which he now occupies belonged to his wife's 
 estate. She had, for sentimental reasons of her 
 own, commended it to his particular care. On his 
 return he came to see it, liked it, turned a parcel 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 27 
 
 of carpenters and upholsterers into it, and by in- 
 habiting it for nine years transformed it into the 
 perfect dwelling which I find it. Here he has 
 spent all his time, with the exception of a usual 
 winter's visit to New York a practice recently dis- 
 continued, owing to the increase of his ailments 
 and the projection of these famous memoirs. His 
 life has finally come to be passed in comparative 
 solitude. He tells of various distant relatives, as 
 well as intimate friends of both sexes, who used 
 formerly to be entertained at his cost ; but with 
 each of them, in the course of time, he seems to 
 have succeeded in quarrelling. Throughout life, 
 evidently, he has had capital fingers for plucking 
 off parasites. Rich, lonely, and vain, he must have 
 been fair game for the race of social sycophants 
 and cormorants ; and it's much to the credit of his 
 sharpness and that instinct of self-defence which 
 nature bestows even on the weak, that he has not 
 been despoiled and exploite. Apparently they have 
 all been bunglers. I maintain that something is to 
 be done with him still. But one must work in 
 obedience to certain definite laws. Doctor Jones, 
 his physician, tells me that in point of fact he has 
 had for the past ten years an unbroken series of 
 favorites, proteges, heirs presumptive ; but that 
 each, in turn, by some fatally false movement, has 
 spilled his pottage. The doctor declares, more- 
 over, that they were mostly very common people. 
 Gradually the old man seems to have developed a 
 preference for two or three strictly exquisite inti- 
 
28 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 mates, over a throng of your vulgar pensioners. 
 His tardy literary schemes, too fruit of his all but 
 sapless senility have absorbed more and more of 
 his time and attention. The end of it all is, there- 
 fore, that Theodore and I have him quite to our- 
 selves, and that it behooves us to hold our por- 
 ringers straight. 
 
 Poor, pretentious old simpleton ! It's not his 
 fault, after all, that he fancies himself a great 
 little man. How are you to judge of the stat- 
 ure of mankind when men have forever addressed 
 you on their knees ? Peace arid joy to his in- 
 nocent fatuity ! He believes himself the most 
 rational of men ; in fact, he's the most supersti- 
 tious. He fancies himself a philosopher, an in- 
 quirer, a discoverer. He has not yet discovered 
 that he is a humbug, that Theodore is a prig, and 
 that I am an adventurer. He prides himself on his 
 good manners, his urbanity, his knowing a rule of 
 conduct for every occasion in life. My private im- 
 pression is that his skinny old bosom contains un- 
 suspected treasures of impertinence. He takes his 
 stand on his speculative audacity his direct, un- 
 daunted gaze at the universe ; in truth, his mind 
 is haunted by a hundred dingy old-world spectres 
 and theological phantasms. He imagines himself 
 one of the most solid of men ; he is essentially one 
 of the hollowest. He thinks himself ardent, im- 
 pulsive, passionate, magnanimous capable of 
 boundless enthusiasm for an idea or a sentiment. 
 It is clear to me that on no occasion of disinter- 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 29 
 
 ested action can he ever have done anything in 
 time. He believes, finally, that he has drained the 
 cup of life to the dregs ; that he has known, in its 
 bitterest intensity, every emotion of which the 
 human spirit is capable ; that he has loved, strug- 
 gled, suffered. Mere vanity, all of it. He has 
 never loved any one but himself ; he has never 
 suffered from anything but an undigested supper 
 or an exploded pretension ; he has never touched 
 with the end of his lips the vulgar bowl from which 
 the mass of mankind quaffs its floods of joy and 
 sorrow. Well, the long and short of it all is, that 
 I honestly pity him. He may have given sly 
 knock* in his life, but he can't hurt any one now. 
 I pity his ignorance, his weakness, his pusillanim- 
 ity. He has tasted the real sweetness of life no 
 more than its bitterness ; he has never dreamed, 
 nor experimented, nor dared ; he has never known 
 any but mercenary affection ; neither men nor 
 women have risked aught for htm for his good 
 spirits, his good looks, his empty pockets. How I 
 should like to give him, for once, a real sensation ! 
 26th. I took a row this morning with Theodore 
 a couple of miles along the lake, to a point where 
 we went ashore and lounged away an hour in the 
 sunshine, which is still very comfortable. Poor 
 Theodore seems troubled about many things. For 
 one, he is troubled about me : he is actually more 
 anxious about my future than I myself ; he thinks 
 better of me than I do of myself ; he is so deucedly 
 conscientious, so scrupulous, so averse to giving 
 
30 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 offence or to brusquer any situation before it has 
 played itself out, that he shrinks from betraying 
 his apprehensions or asking direct questions, 
 But I know that he would like very much to ex- 
 tract from me some intimation that there is some 
 thing under the sun I should like to do. I catch 
 myself in the act of taking heaven forgive me ! 
 a half-malignant joy in confounding his expecta- 
 tions leading his generous sympathies off the scenl 
 by giving him momentary glimpses of my latent 
 wickedness. But in Theodore I have so firm a 
 friend that I shall have a considerable job if I ever 
 find it needful to make him change his mind about 
 me. He admires me that's absolute ; he takes 
 my low moral tone for an eccentricity of genius, 
 and it only imparts an extra flavor a haut godt 
 to the charm of my intercourse. Nevertheless, 1 
 can see that he is disappointed. I have even less 
 to show, after all these years, than he had hoped. 
 Heaven help us ! little enough it must strike him 
 as being. What a contradiction there is in our be- 
 ing friends at all ! I believe we shall end with 
 hating each other. It's all very well now our 
 agreeing to differ, for we haven't opposed inter- 
 ests. But if we should really clash, the situation 
 would be warm ! I wonder, as it is, that Theodore 
 keeps his patience with me. His education since 
 we parted should tend logically to make him de- 
 spise me. He has studied, thought, suffered, loved 
 loved those very plain sisters and nieces. Poor 
 me ! how should I be virtuous ? I have no sisters, 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 31 
 
 plain or pretty ! nothing to love, work for, live 
 for. My dear Theodore, if you are going one of 
 these days to despise me and drop me in the 
 name of comfort, come to the point at once, and 
 make an end of our state of tension. 
 
 He is troubled, too, about Mr. Sloane. His atti- 
 tude toward the bonhomme quite passes my compre- 
 hension. It's the queerest jumble of contraries. 
 He penetrates him, disapproves of him yet re- 
 spects and admires him. It all comes of the poor 
 boy's shrinking New England conscience. He's 
 afraid to give his perceptions a fair chance, lest, 
 forsooth, they should look over his neighbor's 
 wall. He'll not understand that he may as well 
 sacrifice the old reprobate for a lamb as for a 
 sheep. His view of the gentleman, therefore, is a 
 perfect tissue of cobwebs a jumble of half-way 
 sorrows, and wire-drawn charities, and hair- 
 breadth 'scapes from utter damnation, and sudden 
 platitudes of generosity fit, all of it, to make an 
 angel curse ! 
 
 " The man's a perfect egotist and fool," say I, 
 "but I like him." Now Theodore likes him or 
 rather wants to like him ; but he can't reconcile it 
 to his self-respect fastidious deity ! to like a 
 fool. Why the deuce can't he leave it alone alto- 
 gether ? It's a purely practical matter. He ought 
 to do the duties of his place all the better for hav- 
 ing his head clear of officious sentiment. I don't 
 believe in disinterested service ; and Theodore is 
 too desperately bent on preserving his disinterest- 
 
32 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 edness. With me it's different. I am perfectly 
 free to love the bonhomme for a fool. I'm neither 
 a scribe nor a Pharisee ; I am simply a student of 
 the art of life. 
 
 And then, Theodore is troubled about his sisters. 
 He's afraid he's not doing his duty by them. He 
 thinks he ought to be with them to be getting a 
 larger salary to be teaching his nieces. I am not 
 versed in such questions. Perhaps he ought. 
 
 May 3d. This morning Theodore sent me word 
 that he was ill and unable to get up ; upon which 
 I immediately went in to see him. He had caught 
 cold, was sick and a little feverish. I urged him 
 to make no attempt to leave his room, and assured 
 him that I would do what I could to reconcile Mr. 
 Sloane to his absence. This I found an easy mat- 
 ter. I read to him for a couple of hours, wrote 
 four letters one in French and then talked for a 
 while a good while. I have done more talking, 
 by the way, in the last fortnight, than in any pre- 
 vious twelve months much of it, too, none of the 
 wisest, nor, I may add, of the most superstitiously 
 veracious. In a little discussion, two or three days 
 ago, with Theodore, I came to the point and let 
 him know that in gossiping with Mr. Sloane I 
 made no scruple, for our common satisfaction, of 
 " coloring" more or less. My confession gave him 
 "that turn," as Mrs. Gamp would say, that his 
 present illness may be the result of it. Neverthe- 
 less, poor dear fellow, I trust he will be on his legs 
 to-morrow. This afternoon, somehow, I found 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 33 
 
 myself really in the humor of talking. There was 
 something propitious in the circumstances ; a 
 hard, cold rain without, a wood-fire in the library, 
 the bonhomme puffing cigarettes in his arm-chair, 
 beside him a portfolio of newly imported prints 
 and photographs, and Theodore tucked safely 
 away in bed. Finally, when I brought our tetc-h-tete 
 to a close (taking good care not to overstay my 
 welcome) Mr. Sloane seized me by both hands and 
 honored me with one of his venerable grins. 
 " Max/' he said " you must let me call you Max 
 you are the most delightful man I ever knew." 
 
 Verily, there's some virtue left in me yet. I be- 
 lieve I almost blushed. 
 
 " Why didn't I know you ten years ago ?" the 
 old man went on. " There are ten years lost." 
 
 " Ten years ago I was not worth your knowing,' ' 
 Max remarked. 
 
 " But I did know you !" cried the bonhomme. 
 " I knew you in knowing your mother." 
 
 Ah ! my mother again. When the old man be- 
 gins that chapter I feel like telling him to blow out 
 his candle and go to bed. 
 
 " At all events," he continued, " we must make 
 the most of the years that remain. I am a rotten 
 old carcass, but I have no intention of dying. 
 You won't get tired of me and want to go away ?" 
 
 "I am devoted to you, sir," I said. " But I 
 must be looking for some occupation, you know." 
 
 " Occupation ? bother ! I'll give you occupa- 
 tion. I'll give you wages." 
 
34 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 " I am afraid that you will want to give me the 
 wages without the work." And then I declared 
 that I must go up and look at poor Theodore. 
 
 The bonhomme still kept my hands. " I wish very 
 much that I could get you to be as fond of me as 
 you are of poor Theodore." 
 
 " Ah, don't talk about fondness, Mr. Sloane. I 
 don't deal much in that article." 
 
 " Don't you like my secretary ?" 
 
 " Not as he deserves." 
 
 " Nor as he likes you, perhaps ?" 
 
 41 He likes me more than I deserve." 
 
 " Well, Max," my host pursued, " we can be 
 good friends all the same. We don't need a 
 hocus-pocus of false sentiment. We are men, aren't 
 we ? men of sublime good sense." And just here, 
 as the old man looked at me, the pressure of his 
 hands deepened to a convulsive grasp, and the 
 bloodless mask of his countenance was suddenly 
 distorted with a nameless fear. " Ah, my dear 
 young man !" he cried, " come and be a son to me 
 the son of my age and desolation ! For God's 
 sake, don't leave me to pine and die alone !" 
 
 I was greatly surprised and I may add I was 
 moved. Is it true, then, that this dilapidated 
 organism contains such measureless depths of 
 horror and longing ? He has evidently a mortal 
 fear of death. I assured him on my honor that he 
 may henceforth call upon me for any service. 
 
 8th. Theodore's little turn proved more serious 
 than I expected. He has been confined to his 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 35 
 
 room till to-day. This evening he came down to 
 the library in his dressing-gown. Decidedly, Mr. 
 Sloane is an eccentric, but hardly, as Theodore 
 thinks, a " charming" one. There is something 
 extremely curious in his humors and fancies the 
 incongruous fits and starts, as it were, of his taste. 
 For some reason, best known to himself, he took it 
 into his head to regard it as a want of delicacy, of 
 respect, of savoir-vivre of heaven knows what 
 that poor Theodore, who is still weak and languid, 
 should enter the sacred precinct of his study in the 
 vulgar drapery of a dressing-gown. The sovereign 
 trouble with the bonhomme is an absolute lack of the 
 instinct of justice. He's of the real feminine turn 
 I believe I have written it before without the 
 redeeming fidelity of the sex. I honestly believe 
 that I might come into his study in my night-shirt 
 and he would smile at it as a picturesque deshabille. 
 But for poor Theodore to-night there was nothing 
 but scowls and frowns, and barely a civil inquiry 
 about his health. But poor Theodore is not such 
 a fool, either ; he will not die of a snubbing ; I 
 never said he was a weakling. Once he fairly saw 
 from what quarter the wind blew, he bore the 
 master's brutality with the utmost coolness and 
 gallantry. Can it be that Mr. Sloane really wishes 
 to drop him ? The delicious old brute ! He under- 
 stands favor and friendship only as a selfish rapture 
 a reaction, an infatuation, an act of aggressive, 
 exclusive patronage. It's not a bestowal, with 
 him, but a transfer, and half his pleasure in 
 
36 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 causing his sun to shine is that being wofully near 
 its setting it will produce certain long fantastic 
 shadows. He wants to cast my shadow, I suppose, 
 over Theodore ; but fortunately I am not alto- 
 gether an opaque body. Since Theodore was taken 
 ill he has been into his room but once, and has 
 sent him none but a dry little message or two. I, 
 too, have been much less attentive than I should 
 have wished to be ; but my time has not been my 
 own. It has been, every moment of it, at the dis- 
 posal of my host. He actually runs after me ; he 
 devours me ; he makes a fool of himself, and is try- 
 ing hard to make one of me. I find that he will 
 bear that, in fact, he actually enjoys a sort of 
 unexpected contradiction. He likes anything that 
 will tickle his fancy, give an unusual tone to our re- 
 lations, remind him of certain historical characters 
 whom he thinks he resembles. I have stepped into 
 Theodore's shoes, and done with what I feel in 
 my bones to be very inferior skill and taste all 
 the reading, writing, condensing, transcribing and 
 advising that he has been accustomed to do. I 
 have driven with the bonhomme j played chess and 
 cribbage with him ; beaten him, bullied him, con- 
 tradicted him ; forced him into going out on the 
 water under my charge. Who shall say, after this, 
 that I haven't done my best to discourage his ad- 
 vances, put myself in a bad light ? As yet, my 
 efforts are vain ; in fact they quite turn to my own 
 confusion. Mr. Sloane is so thankful at having 
 escaped from the lake with his life that he looks 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 37 
 
 upon me as a preserver and protector. Confound 
 it all ; it's a bore ! But one thing is certain, it 
 can't last forever. Admit that he has cast Theo- 
 dore out and taken me in. He will speedily dis- 
 cover that he has made a pretty mess of it, and that 
 he had much better have left well enough alone. 
 He likes my reading and writing now, but in a 
 month he will begin to hate them. He will miss 
 Theodore's better temper and better knowledge 
 his healthy impersonal judgment. What an ad- 
 vantage that well-regulated youth has over me, 
 after all ! I am for days, he is for years ; he for 
 the long run, I for the short. I, perhaps, am in- 
 tended for success, but he is adapted for happiness. 
 He has in his heart a tiny sacred particle which 
 leavens his whole being and keeps it pure and 
 sound a faculty of admiration and respect. For 
 him human nature is still a wonder and a mystery ; 
 it bears a divine stamp Mr. Sloane's tawdry com- 
 position as well as the rest. 
 
 i3th. I have refused, of course, to supplant 
 Theodore further, in the exercise of his functions, 
 and he has resumed his morning labors with Mr. 
 Sloane. I, on my side, have spent these morning 
 hours in scouring the country on that capital black 
 mare, the use of which is one of the perquisites of 
 Theodore's place. The days have been magnificent 
 the heat of the sun tempered by a murmuring, 
 wandering wind, the whole north a mighty ecstasy 
 of sound and verdure, the sky a far-away vault of 
 bended blue. Not far from the mill at M., the 
 
38 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 other end of the lake, I met, for the third time, 
 that very pretty young girl who reminds me so 
 forcibly of A. L. She makes so lavish a use of her 
 eyes that I ventured to stop and bid her good- 
 morning. She seems nothing loath to an acquaint- 
 ance. She's a pure barbarian in speech, but her 
 eyes are quite articulate. These rides do me good ; 
 I was growing too pensive. 
 
 There is something the matter with Theodore ; 
 his illness seems to have left him strangely affected. 
 He has fits of silent stiffness, alternating with 
 spasms of extravagant gayety. He avoids me at 
 times for hours together, and then he comes and 
 looks at me with an inscrutable smile, as if he 
 were on the verge of a burst of confidence which 
 again is swallowed up in the immensity of his 
 dumbness. Is he hatching some astounding ben- 
 efit to his species ? Is he working to bring about 
 my removal to a higher sphere of action ? Nous 
 verrons bien. 
 
 i8th. Theodore threatens departure. He re- 
 ceived this morning a letter from one of his sisters 
 the young widow announcing her engagement 
 to a clergyman whose acquaintance she has re- 
 cently made, and intimating her expectation of an 
 immediate union with the gentleman a ceremo- 
 ny which would require Theodore's attendance. 
 Theodore, in high good humor, read the letter 
 aloud at breakfast and, to tell the truth, it was a 
 charming epistle. He then spoke of his having to 
 go on to the wedding, a proposition to which Mr. 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 39 
 
 Sloane graciously assented much more than as- 
 sented. " I shall be sorry to lose you, after so 
 happy a connection," said the old man. Theodore 
 turned pale, stared a moment, and then, recover- 
 ing his color and his composure, declared that 
 he should have no objection in life to coming 
 back. 
 
 " Bless your soul \" cried the bonhomme, " you 
 don't mean to say you will leave your other sister 
 all alone?" 
 
 To which Theodore replied that he would arrange 
 for her and her little girl to live with the married 
 pair. " It's the only proper thing," he remarked, 
 as if it were quite settled. Has it come to this, 
 then, that Mr. Sloane actually wants to turn him 
 out of the house ? The shameless old villain ! He 
 keeps smiling an uncanny smile, which means, as I 
 read it, that if the poor young man once departs 
 he shall never return on the old footing for all his 
 impudence ! 
 
 2oth. This morning, at breakfast, we had a 
 terrific scene. A letter arrives for Theodore ; he 
 opens it, turns white and red, frowns, falters, and 
 then informs us that the clever widow has broken 
 off her engagement. No wedding, therefore, and 
 no departure for Theodore. The bonhomme was furi- 
 ous. In his fury he took the liberty of calling poor 
 Mrs. Parker (the sister) a very uncivil name. 
 Theodore rebuked him, with perfect good taste, 
 and kept his temper. 
 
 " If my opinions don't suit you, Mr. Lisle," the 
 
40 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 old man broke out, " and my mode of expressing 
 them displeases you, you know you can easily pro- 
 tect yourself." 
 
 " My dear Mr. Sloane," said Theodore, " your 
 opinions, as a general thing, interest me deeply, 
 and have never ceased to act beneficially upon the 
 formation of my own. Your mode of expressing 
 them is always brilliant, and I wouldn't for the 
 world, after all our pleasant intercourse, separate 
 from you in bitterness. Only, I repeat, your 
 qualification of my sister's conduct is perfectly un- 
 called for. If you knew her, you would be the 
 first to admit it." 
 
 There was something in Theodore's look and 
 manner, as he said these words, which puzzled me 
 all the morning. After dinner, finding myself 
 alone with him, I told him I was glad he was not 
 obliged to go away. He looked at me with the mys- 
 terious smile I have mentioned, thanked me, and 
 fell into meditation. As this bescribbled chronicle 
 is the record of my follies as well of my hauts faits, 
 I needn't hesitate to say that for a moment I was 
 a good deal vexed. What business has this angel 
 of candor to deal in signs and portents, to look 
 unutterable things ? What right has he to do so 
 with me especially, in whom he has always pro- 
 fessed an absolute confidence ? Just as I was about 
 to cry out, " Come, my dear fellow, this affectation 
 of mystery has lasted quite long enough favor me 
 at last with the result of your cogitations !" as I 
 was on the point of thus expressing my impatience 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 4* 
 
 of his ominous behavior, the oracle at last addressed 
 itself to utterance. 
 
 " You see, my dear Max," he said, " I can't, in 
 justice to myself, go away in obedience to the sort 
 of notice that was served on me this morning. 
 What do you think of my actual footing here ?" 
 
 Theodore's actual footing here seems to me im- 
 possible ; of course I said so. 
 
 " No, I assure you it's not," he answered. " I 
 should, on the contrary, feel very uncomfortable 
 to think that I had come away, except by my own 
 choice. You see a man can't afford to cheapen 
 himself. What are you laughing at ?" 
 
 " I am laughing, in the first place, my dear fel- 
 low, to hear on your lips the language of cold cal- 
 culation ; and in the second place, at your odd 
 notion of the process by which a man keeps himself 
 up in the market." 
 
 " I assure you it's the correct notion. I came 
 here as a particular favor to Mr. Sloane ; it was 
 expressly understood so. The sort of work was 
 odious to me ; I had regularly to break myself in. 
 I had to trample on my convictions, preferences, 
 prejudices. I don't take such things easily ; I take 
 them hard ; and when once the effort has been 
 made, I can't consent to have it wasted. If Mr. 
 Sloane needed me then, he needs me still. I am 
 ignorant of any change having taken place in his 
 intentions, or in his means of satisfying them. I 
 came, not to amuse him, but to do a certain work ; 
 I hope to remain until the work is completed. To 
 
42 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 go away sooner is to make a confession of in- 
 capacity which, I protest, costs me too much. I 
 am too conceited, if you like." 
 
 Theodore spoke these words with a face which I 
 have never seen him wear a fixed, mechanical 
 smile ; a hard, dry glitter in his eyes ; a harsh, 
 strident tone in his voice in his whole physiog- 
 nomy a gleam, as it were, a note of defiance. Now 
 I confess that for defiance I have never been con- 
 scious of an especial relish. When I am defied I 
 am beastly. "My dear man," I replied, "your 
 sentiments do you prodigious credit. Your very 
 ingenious theory of your present situation, as well- 
 as your extremely pronounced sense of your per- 
 sonal value, are calculated to insure you a degree 
 of practical success which can very well dispense 
 with the furtherance of my poor good wishes." 
 Oh, the grimness of his visage as he listened to 
 this, and, I suppose I may add, the grimness of 
 mine ! But I have ceased to be puzzled. Theo- 
 dore's conduct for the past ten days is suddenly 
 illumined with a backward, lurid ray. I will note 
 down here a few plain truths which it behooves 
 me to take to heart commit to memory. Theo- 
 dore is jealous of Maximus Austin. Theodore 
 hates the said Maximus. Theodore has been seek- 
 ing for the past three months to see his name writ- 
 ten, last but not least, in a certain testamentary 
 document : " Finally, I bequeath to my dear 
 young friend, Theodore Lisle, in return for inval- 
 uable services and unfailing devotion, the bulk of 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 43 
 
 my property, real and personal, consisting of " 
 (hereupon follows an exhaustive enumeration of 
 houses, lands, public securities, books, pictures, 
 horses, and dogs). It is for this that he has toiled, 
 and watched, and prayed ; submitted to intellect- 
 ual weariness and spiritual torture ; accommodated 
 himself to levity, blasphemy, and insult. For this 
 he sets his teeth and tightens his grasp ; for this 
 he'll fight. Dear me, it's an immense weight off 
 one's mind ! There are nothing, then, but vulgar, 
 common laws ; no sublime exceptions, no tran- 
 scendent anomalies. Theodore's a knave, a hypo- 
 nay, nay ; stay, irreverent hand ! Theodore's 
 a man! Well, that's all I want. He wants fight 
 he shall have it. Have I got, at last, my simple, 
 natural emotion ? 
 
 2ist. I have lost no time. This evening, late, 
 after I had heard Theodore go to his room (I had 
 left the library early, on the pretext of having let- 
 ters to write), I repaired to Mr. Sloane, who had 
 not yet gone to bed, and informed him I should be 
 obliged to leave him at once, and pickup a subsist- 
 ence somehow in New York. He felt the blow ; it 
 brought him straight down on his marrow-bones. 
 He went through the whole gamut of his arts and 
 graces ; he blustered, whimpered, entreated, flat- 
 tered. He tried to drag in Theodore's name ; but 
 this I, of course, prevented. But, finally, why, 
 why, WHY, after all my promises of fidelity, must I 
 thus cruelly desert him ? Then came my trump 
 card : I have spent my last penny ; while I stay, 
 
44 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 I'm a beggar. The remainder of this extraordi- 
 nary scene I have no power to describe : how the 
 bonhomme, touched, inflamed, inspired, by the 
 thought of my destitution, and at the same time 
 annoyed, perplexed, bewildered at having to com- 
 mit himself to doing anything for me, worked him- 
 self into a nervous frenzy which deprived him of a 
 clear sense of the value of his words and his ac- 
 tions ; how I, prompted by the irresistible spirit of 
 my desire to leap astride of his weakness and ride 
 it hard to the goal of my dreams, cunningly con- 
 trived to keep his spirit at the fever-point, so that 
 strength and reason and resistance should burn 
 themselves out. I shall probably never again have 
 such a sensation as I enjoyed to-night actually 
 feel a heated human heart throbbing and turning 
 and struggling in my grasp ; know its pants, its 
 spasms, its convulsions, and its final senseless 
 quiescence. At half-past one o'clock Mr. Sloane 
 got out of his chair, went to his secretary, opened 
 a private drawer, and took out a folded paper. 
 " This is my will," he said, " made some seven 
 weeks ago. If you will stay with me I will destroy 
 it." 
 
 " Really, Mr. Sloane," I said, " if you think my 
 purpose is to exert any pressure upon your testa- 
 mentary inclinations " 
 
 " I will tear it in pieces," he cried ; "I will 
 burn it up ! I shall be as sick as a dog to-morrow ; 
 but I will do it. A-a-h !" 
 
 He clapped his hand to his side, as if in sudden, 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 45 
 
 overwhelming pain, and sank back fainting into 
 his chair. A single glance assured me that he 
 was unconscious. I possessed myself of the paper, 
 opened it, and perceived that he had left every- 
 thing to his saintly secretary. For an instant a 
 savage, puerile feeling of hate popped up in my 
 bosom, and I came within a hair's-breadth of 
 obeying my foremost impulse that of stuffing the 
 document into the fire. Fortunately, my reason 
 overtook my passion, though for a moment it was 
 an even race. I put the paper back into the 
 bureau, closed it, and rang the bell for Robert 
 (the old man's servant). Before he came I stood 
 watching the poor, pale remnant of mortality be- 
 fore me, and wondering whether those feeble life- 
 gasps were numbered. He was as white as a sheet, 
 grimacing with pain horribly ugly. Suddenly 
 he opened his eyes ; they met my own ; I fell on 
 my knees and took his hands. They closed on 
 mine with a grasp strangely akin to the rigidity of 
 death. Nevertheless, since then he has revived, 
 and has relapsed again into a comparatively healthy 
 sleep. Robert seems to know how to deal with 
 him. 
 
 22d. Mr. Sloane is seriously ill out of his mind 
 and unconscious of people's identity. The doctor 
 has been here, off and on, all day, but this even- 
 ing reports improvement. I have kept out of the 
 old man's room, and confined myself to my own, 
 reflecting largely upon the chance of his immediate 
 death. Does Theodore know of the will ? Would 
 
46 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 it occur to him to divide the property ? Would it 
 occur to me, in his place ? We met at dinner, and 
 talked in a grave, desultory, friendly fashion. 
 After all, he's an excellent fellow. I don't hate 
 him. I don't even dislike him. He jars on me, 
 // m'agace ; but that's no reason why I should do 
 him an evil turn. Nor shall I. The property is a 
 fixed idea, that's all. I shall get it if I can. We 
 are fairly matched. Before heaven, no, we are not 
 fairly matched ! Theodore has a conscience. 
 
 23d. I am restless and nervous and for good 
 reasons. Scribbling here keeps me quiet. This 
 morning Mr. Sloane is better ; feeble and uncertain 
 in mind, but unmistakably on the rise. I may 
 confess now that I feel relieved of a horrid bur- 
 den. Last night I hardly slept a wink. I lay 
 awake listening to the pendulum of my clock. It 
 seemed to say, " He lives he dies." I fully ex- 
 pected to hear it stop suddenly at dies. But it kept 
 going all the morning, and to a decidedly more 
 lively tune. In the afternoon the old man sent for 
 me. I found him in his great muffled bed, with 
 his face the color of damp chalk, and his eyes glow- 
 ing faintly, like torches half stamped out. I was 
 forcibly struck with the utter loneliness of his lot. 
 For all human attendance, my villainous self grin- 
 ning at his bedside and old Robert without, lis- 
 tening, doubtless, at the keyhole. The bonhommf 
 stared at me stupidly ; then seemed to know me, 
 and greeted me with a sickly smile. It was some 
 moments before he was able to speak. At last he 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 47 
 
 faintly bade me to descend into the library, open 
 the secret drawer of the secretary (which he con- 
 trived to direct me how to do), possess myself of 
 his will, and burn it up. He appears to have for- 
 gotten his having taken it out night before last. 
 I told him that I had an insurmountable aversion 
 to any personal dealings with the document. He 
 smiled, patted the back of my hand, and requested 
 me, in that case, to get it, at least, and bring it to 
 him. I couldn't deny him that favor? No, I 
 couldn't, indeed. I went down to the library, 
 therefore, and on entering the room found Theo- 
 dore standing by the fireplace with a bundle of 
 papers. The secretary was open. I stood still, 
 looking from the violated cabinet to the docu- 
 ments in his hand. Among them I recognized, by 
 its shape and size, the paper of which I had in- 
 tended to possess myself. Without delay I walked 
 straight up to him. He looked surprised, but not 
 confused. " I am afraid I shall have to trouble 
 you to surrender one of those papers," I said. 
 
 "Surrender, Maximus ? To anything of your 
 own you are perfectly welcome. I didn't know 
 that you made use of Mr. Sloane's secretary. I 
 was looking for some pages of notes which I have 
 made myself and in which I conceive I have a 
 property." 
 
 " This is what I want, Theodore," I said ; and I 
 drew the will, unfolded, from between his hands. 
 As I did so his eyes fell upon the superscription, 
 " Last Will and Testament, March. F. S." He 
 
48 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 flushed an extraordinary crimson. Our eyes met. 
 Somehow I don't know how or why, or for that 
 matter why not I burst into a violent peal of 
 laughter. Theodore stood staring, with two hot, 
 bitter tears in his eyes. 
 
 " Of course you think I came to ferret out that 
 thing," he said. 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders those of my body 
 only. I confess, morally, I was on my knees with 
 contrition, but there was a fascination in it a 
 fatality. I remembered that in the hurry of my 
 movements the other evening I had slipped the 
 will simply into one of the outer drawers of the 
 cabinet, among Theodore's own papers. " Mr. 
 Sloane sent me for it," I remarked. 
 
 " Very good ; I am glad to hear he's well enough 
 to think of such things." 
 
 " He means to destroy it." 
 
 " I hope, then, he has another made." 
 
 " Mentally, I suppose he has." 
 
 " Unfortunately, his weakness isn't mental or 
 exclusively so." 
 
 " Oh, he will live to make a dozen more," I said. 
 " Do you know the purport of this one ?" 
 
 Theodore's color, by this time, had died away 
 into plain white. He shook his head. The dogged- 
 ness of the movement provoked me, and I wished 
 to arouse his curiosity. " I have his commission 
 to destroy it." 
 
 Theodore smiled very grandly. " It's not a task 
 I envy you," he said, 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 49 
 
 " I should think not especially if you knew the 
 import of the will." He stood with folded arms, 
 regarding me with his cold, detached eyes. I 
 couldn't stand it. " Come, it's your property ! 
 You are sole legatee. I give it up to you." And 
 I thrust the paper into his hand. 
 
 He received it mechanically ; but after a pause, 
 bethinking himself, he unfolded it and cast his 
 eyes over the contents. Then he slowly smoothed 
 it together and held it a moment with a tremulous 
 hand. " You say that Mr. Sloane directed you to 
 destroy it ?" he finally inquired. 
 
 " I say so." 
 
 " And that you know the contents ?" 
 
 " Exactly." 
 
 " And that you were about to do what he asked 
 you ?" 
 
 " On the contrary, I declined." 
 
 Theodore fixed his eyes for a moment on the 
 superscription and then raised them again to my 
 face. " Thank you, Max," he said. " You have 
 left me a real satisfaction." He tore the sheet 
 across and threw the bits into the fire. We stood 
 watching them burn. " Now he can make an- 
 other," said Theodore. 
 
 " Twenty others," I replied. 
 
 " No," said Theodore, " you will take care of 
 that." 
 
 " You are very bitter," I said, sharply enough. 
 
 " No, I am perfectly indifferent. Farewell." 
 And he put out his hand. 
 
50 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 " Are you going away ?" 
 
 " Of course I am. Good-by." 
 
 " Good-by, then. But isn't your departure 
 rather sudden ?" 
 
 " I ought to have gone three weeks ago three 
 weeks ago." I had taken his hand, he pulled it 
 away ; his voice was trembling there were tears 
 in it. 
 
 11 Is that indifference ?" I asked. 
 
 " It's something you will never know !" he cried. 
 " It's shame ! I am not sorry you should see 
 what I feel. It will suggest to you, perhaps, that 
 my heart has never been in this filthy contest. 
 Let me assure you, at any rate, that it hasn't ; that 
 it has had nothing but scorn for the base perver- 
 sion of my pride and my ambition. I could easily 
 shed tears of joy at their return the return of the 
 prodigals ! Tears of sorrow sorrow " 
 
 He was unable to go on. He sank into a chair, 
 covering his face with his hands. 
 
 " For God's sake, stick to the joy !" I exclaimed. 
 
 He rose to his feet again. " Well," he said, " it 
 was for your sake that I parted with my self- 
 respect ; with your assistance I recover it." 
 
 " How for my sake ?" 
 
 " For whom but you would I have gone as far as 
 I did ? For what other purpose than that of keep- 
 ing our friendship whole would I have borne you 
 company into this narrow pass ? A man whom I 
 cared for less I would long since have parted with. 
 You were needed you and something you have 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 51 
 
 about you that always takes me so to bring me to 
 this. You ennobled, exalted, enchanted the strug- 
 gle. I did value my prospect of coming into Mr. 
 Sloane's property. I valued it for my poor sister's 
 sake as well as for my own, so long as it was the 
 natural reward of conscientious service, and not 
 the prize of hypocrisy and cunning. With another 
 man than you I never would have contested such a 
 prize. But you fascinated me, even as my rival, 
 You played with me, deceived me, betrayed me. I 
 held my ground, hoping you would see that what 
 you were doing was not fair. But if you have seen 
 it, it has made no difference with you. For Mr. 
 Sloane, from the moment that, under your magical 
 influence, he revealed his nasty little nature, I had 
 nothing but contempt." 
 
 " And for me now ?" 
 
 " Don't ask me. I don't trust myself." 
 
 " Hate, I suppose." 
 
 " Is that the best you can imagine ? Farewell." 
 
 " Is it a serious farewell farewell forever ?" 
 
 " How can there be any other ?" 
 
 " I am sorry this should be your point of view. 
 It's characteristic. All the more reason then that 
 I should say a word in self-defence. You accuse 
 me of having * played with you, deceived you, be- 
 trayed you.' It seems to me that you are quite be- 
 side the mark. You say you were such a friend of 
 mine ; if so, you ought to be one still. It was not 
 to my fine sentiments you attached yourself, for I 
 never had any or pretended to any. In anything 
 
52 A LIGHT MAN. 
 
 I have done recently, therefore, there has been no 
 inconsistency. I never pretended to take one's 
 friendships so seriously. I don't understand the 
 word in the sense you attach to it. I don't under- 
 stand the feeling of affection between men. To 
 me it means quite another thing. You give it a 
 meaning of your own ; you enjoy the profit of 
 your invention ; it's no more than just that you 
 should pay the penalty. Only it seems to me 
 rather hard that / should pay it." Theodore re- 
 mained silent, but he looked quite sick. "Is it 
 still a ' serious farewell ' ? " I went on. " It seems 
 a pity. After this clearing up, it appears to me 
 that I shall be on better terms with you. No man 
 can have a deeper appreciation of your excellent 
 parts, a keener enjoyment of your society. I should 
 very much regret the loss of it." 
 
 " Have we, then, all this while understood each 
 other so little ?" said Theodore. 
 
 ''Don't say 'we' and 'each other.' I think I 
 have understood you." 
 
 " Very likely. It's not for my having kept any- 
 thing back." 
 
 " Well, I do you justice. To me you have al- 
 ways been over-generous. Try now and be just." 
 
 Still he stood silent, with his cold, hard frown, 
 it was plain that, if he was to come back to me, it 
 would be from the other world if there be one ! 
 What he was going to answer I know not. The 
 door opened, and Robert appeared, pale, trem- 
 bling, his eyes starting in his head. 
 
A LIGHT MAN. 53 
 
 " I verily believe that poor Mr. Sloane is dead in 
 his bed !" he cried. 
 
 There was a moment's perfect silence. " Amen," 
 said I. " Yes, old boy, try and be just." Mr. 
 Sloane had quietly died in my absence. 
 
 24th. Theodore went up to town this morning, 
 having shaken hands with me in silence before he 
 started. Doctor Jones, and Brooks the attorney, 
 have been very officious, and, by their advice, I 
 have telegraphed to a certain Miss Meredith, a 
 maiden lady, by their account the nearest of kin ; 
 or, in other words, simply a discarded niece of the 
 defunct. She telegraphs back that she will arrive 
 in person for the funeral. I shall remain till she 
 comes. I have lost a fortune, but have I irre- 
 trievably lost a friend ? I am sure I can't say. Yes, 
 I shall wait for Miss Meredith. 
 
YATIL 
 
 BY F. D. MILLET. 
 
 WHILE in Paris, in the spring of 1878, I wit- 
 nessed an accident in a circus, which for a 
 time made me renounce all athletic exhibitions. 
 Six horses were stationed side by side in the ring 
 before a spring-board, and the whole company of 
 gymnasts ran and turned somersaults from the 
 spring over the horses, alighting on a mattress 
 spread on the ground. The agility of one finely 
 developed young fellow excited great applause 
 every time he made the leap. He would shoot for- 
 ward in the air like a javelin, and in his flight curl 
 up and turn over directly above the mattress, drop- 
 ping on his feet as lightly as a*bird. This play 
 went on for some minutes, and at each round of 
 applause the favorite seemed to execute his leap 
 with increased skill and grace. Finally, he was 
 seen to gather himself a little farther in the back- 
 
 **# Century Magatine, March, 1883. 
 
YA TIL. 55 
 
 ground than usual, evidently to prepare for a bet- 
 ter start. The instant his turn came he shot out 
 of the crowd of attendants and launched himself 
 into the air with tremendous momentum. Almost 
 quicker than the eye could follow him, he had 
 turned and was dropping to the ground, his arms 
 held above his head, which hung slightly forward, 
 and his legs stretched to meet the shock of the 
 elastic mattress. 
 
 But this time he had jumped an inch too far. 
 His feet struck just on the edge of the mattress, 
 and he was thrown violently forward, doubling up 
 on the ground with a dull thump, which was heard 
 all over the immense auditorium. He remained a 
 second or two motionless, then sprang to his feet, 
 and as quickly sank to the ground again. The 
 ring attendants and two or three gymnasts rushed 
 to him and took him up. The clown, in evening 
 dress, personating the mock ringmaster, the con- 
 ventional spotted merryman, and a stalwart gym- 
 nast in buff fleshings, bore the drooping form of 
 the favorite in their arms, and, followed by the by- 
 standers, who offered ineffectual assistance, carried 
 the wounded man across the ring and through the 
 draped arch under the music gallery. Under any 
 other circumstances the group would have excited 
 a laugh, for the audience was in that condition of 
 almost hysterical excitement when only the least 
 effort of a clown is necessary to cause a wave of 
 laughter. But the moment the wounded man was 
 lifted from the ground, the whole strong light from 
 
5 6 YATIL. 
 
 the brilliant chandelier struck full on his right leg 
 dangling from the knee, with the foot hanging 
 limp and turned inward. A deep murmur of sym- 
 pathy swelled and rolled around the crowded am- 
 phitheatre. 
 
 I left the circus, and hundreds of others did the 
 same. A dozen of us called at the box-office to ask 
 about the victim of the accident. He was adver- 
 tised as " The Great Polish Champion Bareback 
 Rider and Aerial Gymnast." We found that he 
 was really a native of the East, whether Pole or 
 Russian the ticket-seller did not know. His real 
 name was Nagy, and he had been engaged only 
 recently, having returned a few months before from 
 a professional tour in North America. He was 
 supposed to have money, for he commanded a 
 good salary, and was sober and faithful. The ac- 
 cident, it was said, would probably disable him for 
 a few weeks only, and then he would resume his 
 engagement. 
 
 The next day an account of the accident was in 
 the newspapers, and twenty-four hours later all 
 Paris had forgotten about it. For some reason or 
 other I frequently thought of the injured man, and 
 had an occasional impulse to go and inquire after 
 him ; but I never went. It seemed to me that I 
 had seen his face before, when or where I tried in 
 vain to recall. It was not an impressive face, but 
 I could call it up at any moment as distinct to my 
 mind's eye as a photograph to my physical vision. 
 Whenever I thought of him, a dim, very dim 
 
YATIL. 57 
 
 memory would flit through my mind, which I could 
 never seize and fix. 
 
 Two months later I was walking up the Rue 
 Richelieu, when some one, close beside me and a 
 little behind, asked me in Hungarian if I was a 
 Magyar. I turned quickly to answer no, surprised 
 at being thus addressed, and beheld the disabled 
 circus-rider. It flashed upon me, the moment I saw 
 his face, that I had seen him in Turin three years 
 before. My surprise at the sudden identification 
 of the gymnast was construed by him into vexation 
 at being spoken to by a stranger. He began to 
 apologize for stopping me, and was moving away, 
 when I asked him about the accident, remarking 
 that I was present on the evening of his misfortune. 
 My next question, put in order to detain him, 
 was : 
 
 " Why did you ask if I was a Hungarian ?" 
 
 " Because you wear a Hungarian hat," was the 
 reply. 
 
 This was true. I happened to have on a little 
 round, soft felt hat, which I had purchased in 
 Buda Pesth. 
 
 " Well, but what if I were Hungarian ?" 
 
 " Nothing ; only I was lonely and wanted com- 
 pany, and you looked as if I had seen you some- 
 where before. You are an artist, are you not ?" 
 
 I said I was, and asked him how he guessed it. 
 
 " I can't explain how it is," he said, " but I 
 always know them. Are you doing anything ?" 
 
58 YATIL. 
 
 "No," I replied. 
 
 " Perhaps I may get you something to do," he 
 suggested. " What is your line ?" 
 
 " Figures," I answered, unable to divine how he 
 thought he could assist me. 
 
 This reply seemed to puzzle him a little, and he 
 continued : 
 
 " Do you ride or do the trapeze ?" 
 
 It was my turn now to look dazed, and it might 
 easily have been gathered, from my expression, 
 that I was not flattered at being taken for a saw- 
 dust artist. However, as he apparently did not 
 notice any change in my face, I explained without 
 further remark that I was a painter. The explana- 
 tion did not seem to disturb him any ; he was evi- 
 dently acquainted with the profession, and looked 
 upon it as kindred to his own. 
 
 As we walked along through the great open 
 quadrangle of the Tuileries, I had an opportunity 
 of studying his general appearance. He was 
 neatly dressed, and, though pale, was apparently 
 in good health. Notwithstanding a painful limp 
 his carriage was erect, and his movements denoted 
 great physical strength. On the bridge over the 
 Seine we paused for a moment and leaned on the 
 parapet, and thus, for the first time, stood nearly 
 face to face. He looked earnestly at me a moment 
 without speaking, and then, shouting "Torino" so 
 loudly and earnestly as to attract the gaze of all the 
 passers, he seized me by the hand, and continued 
 to shake it and repeat "Torino'" over and over again. 
 
YA TIL. 59 
 
 This word cleared up my befogged memory like 
 magic. There was no longer any mystery about 
 the man before me. The impulse which now drew 
 us together was only the unconscious souvenir of 
 an earlier acquaintance, for we had met before. 
 With the vision of the Italian city, which came dis- 
 tinctly to my eyes at that moment, came also to my 
 mind every detail of an incident which had long 
 since passed entirely from my thoughts. 
 
 It was during the Turin carnival, in 1875, that I 
 happened to stop over for a day and a night, on 
 my way down from Paris to Venice. The festival 
 was uncommonly dreary, for the air was chilly, the 
 sky gray and gloomy, and there was a total lack of 
 spontaneity in the popular' spirit. The gaudy 
 decorations of the Piazza and the Corso, the num- 
 berless shows and booths, and the brilliant cos- 
 tumes, could not make it appear a season of jollity 
 and mirth, for the note of discord in the hearts of 
 the people was much too strong. King Carnival's 
 might was on the wane, and neither the influence 
 of the Church nor the encouragement of the State 
 was able to bolster up the superannuated monarch. 
 There was no communicativeness in even what 
 little fun there was going, and the day was a long 
 and a tedious one. As I was strolling around in 
 rather a melancholy mood, just at the close of the 
 cavalcade, I saw the flaming posters of a circus, 
 and knew my day was saved, for I had a great 
 fondness for the ring. An hour later I was seated 
 
60 YA TIL. 
 
 in the cheerfully lighted amphitheatre, and the old 
 performance of the trained stallions was going on 
 as I had seen it a hundred times before. At last 
 the " Celebrated Cypriot Brothers, the Universal 
 Bareback Riders," came tripping gracefully into 
 the ring, sprang lightly upon two black horses, and 
 were off around the narrow circle like the wind, 
 now together, now apart, performing all the while 
 marvellous feats of strength and skill. It required 
 no study to discover that there was no relationship 
 between the two performers. One of them was a 
 heavy, gross, dark-skinned man, with the careless 
 bearing of one who had been nursed in a circus. 
 The other was a small, fair-haired youth of nine- 
 teen or twenty years, with limbs as straight and as 
 shapely as the Narcissus, and with joints like the 
 wiry-limbed fauns. His head was round, and his 
 face of a type which would never be called beauti- 
 ful, although it was strong in feature and attrac- 
 tive in expression. His eyes were small and twink- 
 ling, his eyebrows heavy, and his mouth had a 
 peculiar proud curl in it which was never disturbed 
 by the tame smile of the practised performer. He 
 was evidently a foreigner. He went through his 
 acts with wonderful readiness and with slight 
 effort, and, while apparently enjoying keenly the 
 exhilaration of applause, he showed no trace of the 
 blast bearing of the old stager. In nearly every act 
 that followed he took a prominent part. On the 
 trapeze, somersaulting over horses placed side by 
 side, grouping with his so-called brother and a 
 
YATIL. 6 1 
 
 small lad, he did his full share of the work, and 
 when the programme was ended he came among 
 the audience to sell photographs while the lottery 
 was being drawn. 
 
 As usual during the carnival, there was a lottery 
 arranged by the manager of the circus, and every 
 ticket had a number which entitled the holder to a 
 chance in the prizes. When the young gymnast 
 came in turn to me, radiant in his salmon fleshings 
 and blue trunks, with slippers and bows to match, 
 I could not help asking him if he was an Italian. 
 
 " No, signor, Magyar !" he replied, and I shortly 
 found that his knowledge of Italian was limited to 
 a dozen words. I occupied him by selecting some 
 photographs, and, much to his surprise, spoke to 
 him in his native tongue. When he learned I had 
 been in Hungary he was greatly pleased, and the 
 impatience of other customers for the photographs 
 was the only thing that prevented him from be- 
 coming communicative immediately. As he left 
 me I slipped into his hand my lottery-ticket, with 
 the remark that I never had any luck, and hoped 
 he would. 
 
 The numbers were, meanwhile, rapidly drawn, 
 the prizes being arranged in the order of their 
 value, each ticket taken from the hat denoting 
 a prize, until all were distributed. " Number 
 twenty-eight a pair of elegant vases !" " Number 
 sixteen three bottles of vermouth !" " Number 
 one hundred and eighty-four candlesticks and 
 two bottles of vermouth !" " Number four hun- 
 
62 YATIL. 
 
 dred and ten three bottles of vermouth and a set 
 of jewelry !" " Number three hundred and nine- 
 teen five bottles of vermouth !" and so on, with 
 more bottles of vermouth than anything else. In- 
 deed, each prize had to be floated on a few litres 
 of the Turin specialty, and I began to think that 
 perhaps it would have been better, after all, not to 
 have given my circus friend the ticket, if he were 
 to draw drink with it. 
 
 Many prizes were called out, and at last only 
 two numbers remained. The excitement was now 
 intense, and it did not diminish when the con- 
 ductor of the lottery announced that the last two 
 numbers would draw the two great prizes of the 
 evening, namely : An order on a Turin tailor for a 
 suit of clothes, and an order on a jeweller fora gold 
 watch and chain. The first of these two last num- 
 bers was taken out of the hat. 
 
 " Number twenty-five order for a suit of 
 clothes !" was the announcement. 
 
 Twenty-five had been the number of my ticket. 
 I did not hear the last number drawn, for the Hun- 
 garian was in front of my seat trying to press the 
 order on me, and protesting against appropriating 
 my good luck. I wrote my name on the pro- 
 gramme for him, with the simple address, U. S. A., 
 persuaded him to accept the windfall, and went 
 home. The next morning I left town. 
 
 On the occasion of our mutual recognition in 
 Paris, the circus-boy began to relate, as soon as the 
 first flush of his surprise was over, the story of his 
 
YA TIL. 63 
 
 life since the incident in Turin. He had been to 
 New York and Boston, and all the large sea-coast 
 towns ; to Chicago, St. Louis, and even to San 
 Francisco ; always with a circus company. When- 
 ever he had had an opportunity in the United 
 States, he had asked for news of me. 
 
 " The United States is so large !" he said, with 
 a sigh. " Every one told me that, when I showed 
 the Turin programme with your name on it." 
 
 The reason why he had kept the programme and 
 tried to find me in America was because the lottery 
 ticket had been the direct means of his emigration, 
 and, in fact, the first piece of good fortune that 
 had befallen him since he left his native town. 
 When he joined the circus he was an apprentice, 
 and beside a certain number of hours of gymnastic 
 practice daily and service in the ring both after- 
 noon and evening, he had half a dozen horses to 
 care for, his part of the tent to pack up and load, 
 and the team to drive to the next stopping-place. 
 For sixteen and often eighteen hours of hard work 
 he received only his food and his performing 
 clothes. When he was counted as one of the 
 troupe his duties were lightened, but he got only 
 enough money to pay his way with difficulty. 
 Without a lira ahead, and with no clothes but his 
 rough working-suit and his performing costume, 
 he could not hope to escape from this sort of bond- 
 age. The luck of number twenty-five had put 
 him on his feet. 
 
 " All Hungarians worship America," he said, 
 
64 YA TIL. 
 
 " and when I saw that you were an American I 
 knew that my good fortune had begun in earnest. 
 Of course I believed America to be the land of 
 plenty, and there could have been no stronger 
 proof of this than the generosity with which you, 
 the first American I had ever seen, gave me, a per- 
 fect stranger, such a valuable prize. When I re- 
 membered the number of the ticket and the letter 
 in the alphabet, Y, to which this number corre- 
 sponds, I was dazed at the significance of the omen, 
 and resolved at once to seek my fortune in the 
 United States. I sold the order on the tailor for 
 money enough to buy a suit of ready-made clothes 
 and pay my fare to Genoa. From this port I 
 worked my passage to Gibraltar, and thence, after 
 performing a few weeks in a small English circus, 
 I went to New York in a fruit-vessel. As long as 
 I was in America everything prospered with me. 
 I made a great deal of money, and spent a great 
 deal. After a couple of years I went to London 
 with a company, and there lost my pay and my 
 position by the failure of the manager. In Eng- 
 land my good luck all left me. Circus people are 
 too plenty there ; everybody is an artist. I could 
 scarcely get anything to do in my line, so I drifted 
 over to Paris." 
 
 We prolonged our stroll for an hour, for 
 although I did not anticipate any pleasure or profit 
 from continuing the acquaintance, there was yet a 
 certain attraction in his simplicity of manner and 
 in his naive faith in the value of my influence on 
 
YA TIL. 65 
 
 his fortunes. Before we parted he expressed again 
 his ability to get me something to do, but I did 
 not credit his statement enough to correct the im- 
 pression that I was in need of employment. At his 
 earnest solicitation I gave him my address, con- 
 cealing, as well as I could, my reluctance to 
 encourage an acquaintance which could not result 
 in anything but annoyance. 
 
 One day passed, and two, and on the third 
 morning the porter showed him to my room. 
 
 " I have found you work !" he cried, in the first 
 breath. 
 
 Sure enough, he had been to a Polish acquaint- 
 ance who knew a countryman, a copyist in the 
 Louvre. This copyist had a superabundance of 
 orders, and was glad to get some one to help him 
 finish them in haste. My gymnast was so much 
 elated over his success at finding occupation for 
 me that I hadn't the heart to tell him that I was at 
 leisure only while hunting a studio. I therefore 
 promised to go with him to the Louvre some day, 
 but I always found an excuse for not going. 
 
 For two or three weeks we met at intervals. At 
 various times, thinking he was in want, I pressed 
 him to accept the loan of a few francs, but he 
 always stoutly refused. We went together to his 
 lodging-house, where the landlady, an English- 
 woman, who boarded most of the circus people, 
 spoke of her " poor dear Mr. Nodge," as she 
 called him, in quite a maternal way, and assured 
 me that he had wanted for nothing, and should not 
 
66 YA TIL. 
 
 so long as his wound disabled him. In the course 
 of a few days I had gathered from him a complete 
 history of his circus-life, which was full of ad- 
 venture and hardship. He was, as I had thought 
 then, somewhat of a novice in the circus business 
 at the time we met in Turin, having left his home 
 less than two years before. He had indeed been 
 associated as a regular member of the company 
 only a few months, after having served a difficult 
 and wearing apprenticeship. He was born in 
 Koloszvar, where his father was a professor in the 
 university, and there he grew up with three 
 brothers and a sister, in a comfortable home. He 
 always had had a great desire to see travel, and 
 from early childhood developed a special fondness 
 for gymnastic feats. The thought of a circus made 
 him fairly wild. On rare occasions a travelling 
 show visited this Transylvanian town, and his 
 parents with difficulty restrained him from follow- 
 ing the circus away. At last, in 1873, one show, 
 more complete and more brilliant than any one 
 before seen there, came in on the newly opened 
 railway, and he, now a man, went away with it, 
 unable longer to restrain his passion for the pro- 
 fession. Always accustomed to horses, and already 
 a skilful acrobat, he was immediately accepted by 
 the manager as an apprentice, and after a season 
 in Roumania and a disastrous trip through 
 Southern Austria, they came into Northern Italy, 
 where I met him. 
 Whenever he spoke of his early life he always 
 
YA TIL. 67 
 
 became quiet and depressed, and for a long time 
 I believed that he brooded over his mistake in ex- 
 changing a happy home for the vicissitudes of 
 Bohemia. It came out slowly, however, that he 
 was haunted by a superstition, a strange and in- 
 genious one, which was yet not without a certain 
 show of reason for its existence. Little by little I 
 learned the following facts about it : His father 
 was of pure Szeklar or original Hungarian stock, 
 as dark-skinned as a Hindoo, and his mother was 
 from one of the families of Western Hungary, with 
 probably some Saxon blood in her veins. His 
 three brothers were dark like his father, but he and 
 his sister were blondes. He was born with a 
 peculiar red mark on his right shoulder, directly 
 over the scapular. This mark was shaped like a 
 forked stick. His father had received a wound in 
 the insurrection of '48, a few months before the 
 birth of him, the youngest son, and this birth-mark 
 reproduced the shape of the father's scar. Among 
 Hungarians his father passed for a very learned 
 man. He spoke fluently German, French, and 
 Latin (the language used by Hungarians in com- 
 mon communication with other nationalities), and 
 took great pains to give his children an acquaint- 
 ance with each of these tongues. Their earliest 
 playthings were French alphabet-blocks, and the 
 set which served as toys and tasks for each of the 
 elder brothers came at last to him as his legacy. 
 The letters were formed by the human figure in 
 different attitudes, and each block had a little 
 
68 YA TIL. 
 
 couplet below the picture, beginning with the 
 letter on the block. The Y represented a gymnast 
 hanging by his hands to a trapeze, and being a 
 letter which does not occur in the Hungarian 
 language except in combinations, excited most the 
 interest and imagination of the youngsters. Thou- 
 sands of times did they practise the grouping of 
 the figures on the blocks, and the Y always served 
 as a model for trapeze exercises. My friend, on 
 account of his birth-mark, which resembled a rude 
 Y, was early dubbed by his brothers with the nick- 
 name Yatil, this being the first words of the French 
 couplet printed below the picture. Learning the 
 French by heart, they believed the Y a-t-il to be 
 one word, and with boyish fondness for nick- 
 names saddled the youngest with this. It is easy 
 to understand how the shape of this letter, borne 
 on his body in an indelible mark, and brought to 
 his mind every moment of the day, came to seem 
 in some way connected with his life. As he grew 
 up in this belief he became more and more super- 
 stitious about the letter and about everything in 
 the remotest way connected with it. 
 
 The first great event of his life was joining the 
 circus, and to this the letter Y more or less directly 
 led him. He left home on his twenty-fifth birth- 
 day, and twenty -five was the number of the letter 
 Y in the block-alphabet. 
 
 The second great event of his life was the Turin 
 lottery, and the number of the lucky ticket was 
 twenty-five. " The last sign given me," he said, 
 
YA TIL. 69 
 
 "was the accident in the circus here." As he 
 spoke he rolled up the right leg of his trowsers, 
 and there, on the outside of the calf, about midway 
 between the knee and ankle, was a red scar forked 
 like the letter Y. 
 
 From the time he confided his superstition to 
 me he sought me more than ever. I must confess 
 to feeling, at each visit of his, a little constrained 
 and unnatural. He seemed to lean on me as a 
 protector, and to be hungry all the time for an in- 
 timate sympathy I could never give him. Although 
 I shared his secret, I could not lighten the burden 
 of his superstition. His wound had entirely 
 healed, but as his leg was still weak and he still 
 continued to limp a little, he could not resume his 
 place in the circus. Between brooding over his 
 superstition and worrying about his accident, he 
 grew very despondent. The climax of his hope- 
 lessness was reached when the doctor told him at 
 last that he would never be able to vault again. 
 The fracture had been a severe one, the bone hav- 
 ing protruded through the skin. The broken parts 
 had knitted with great difficulty, and the leg would 
 never be as firm and as elastic as before. Besides, 
 the fracture had slightly shortened the lower leg. 
 His circus career was therefore ended, and he at- 
 tributed his misfortune to the ill-omened letter Y. 
 
 Just about the time of his greatest despondency 
 war was declared between Russia and Turkey. 
 The Turkish embassadors were drumming up re^ 
 cruits all over Western Europe. News came to 
 
7o YA TIL. 
 
 the circus boarding-house that good riders were 
 wanted for the Turkish mounted gensdarmes. 
 Nagy resolved to enlist, and we went together to 
 the Turkish embassy. He was enrolled after only 
 a superficial examination, and was directed to pre- 
 sent himself on the following day to embark for 
 Constantinople. He begged me to go with him to 
 the rendezvous, and there I bade him adieu. As I 
 was shaking his hand he showed me the certificate 
 given him by the Turkish embassador. It bore the 
 date of May 25, and at the bottom was a signature 
 in Turkish characters, which could be readily dis- 
 torted by the imagination into a rude and scrawl- 
 ing Y. 
 
 A series of events occurring immediately after 
 Nagy left for Constantinople resulted in my own 
 unexpected departure in a civil capacity for the 
 seat of war in the Russian lines. The line of curi- 
 ous coincidences in the experience of the circus- 
 rider had impressed me very much at the time, 
 but in the excitement of the Turkish campaign I 
 entirely forgot the circumstance. I do not, indeed, 
 recall any thought of Nagy during the first five 
 months in the field. The day after the fall of 
 Plevna I rode through the deserted earthworks 
 toward the town. The dead were lying where they 
 had fallen in the dramatic and useless sortie of the 
 day before. The dead on a battle-field always ex- 
 cite fresh interest, no matter if the spectacle be an 
 every-day one, and as I rode slowly along I studied 
 
YATIL. 71 
 
 the attitudes of the fallen bodies, speculating on 
 the relation between the death-poses and the last 
 impulse that had animated the living frame. Be- 
 hind a rude barricade of wagons and household 
 goods, part of the train of non-combatants which 
 Osman Pasha had ordered to accompany the army 
 in the sortie, a great number of dead lay in confu- 
 sion. The peculiar position of one of these in- 
 stantly attracted my eye. He had fallen on his 
 face against the barricade, with both arms stretched 
 above his head, evidently killed instantly. The 
 figure on the alphabet-block, described by the 
 circus-rider, came immediately to my mind. My 
 heart beat as I dismounted and looked at the dead 
 man's face. It was a genuine Turk. 
 
 This incident revived my interest in the life of 
 the circus-rider, and gave me an impulse to look 
 among the prisoners to see if by chance he might 
 be with them. I spent a couple of days in dis- 
 tributing tobacco and bread in the hospitals and 
 among the thirty thousand wretches herded shelter- 
 less in the snow. There were some of the mounted 
 gensdarmes among them, and I even found several 
 Hungarians ; but none of them had ever heard of 
 the circus-rider. 
 
 The passage of the Balkans was a campaign full 
 of excitement, and was accompanied by so much 
 hardship that selfishness got entirely the upper 
 hand of me, and life became a battle for physical 
 comfort. After the passage of the mountain range 
 we went ahead so fast that I had little opportunity, 
 
72 YA TIL. 
 
 even if I had the enterprise, to look among the few 
 prisoners for the circus-rider. 
 
 Time passed, and we were at the end of a three 
 days' fight near Philippopolis, in the middle of 
 January. Suleiman Pasha's army, defeated, dis- 
 organized, and at last disbanded, though to that 
 day still unconquered, had finished the tragic act 
 of its last campaign with the heroic stand made in 
 the foothills of the Rhodope Mountains, near 
 Stanimaka, south of Philippopolis. A long month 
 in the terrible cold, on the summits of the Balkan 
 range ; the forced retreat through the snow after 
 the battle of Taskosen ; the neck-and-neck race 
 with the Russians down the valley of the Maritza ; 
 finally, the hot little battle on the river-bank, and 
 the two days of hand-to-hand struggle in the vine- 
 yard of Stanimaka this was a campaign to break 
 the constitution of any soldier. Days without 
 food, nights without shelter from the mountain 
 blasts, always marching and always fighting, sup- 
 plies and baggage lost, ammunition and artillery 
 gone human nature could hold out no longer, 
 and the Turkish army dissolved away into the 
 defiles of the Rhodopes. Unfortunately for her, 
 Turkey has no literature to chronicle, no art to 
 perpetuate the heroism of her defenders. 
 
 The incidents of that short campaign are too full 
 of horror to be related. Not only did the demon 
 of war devour strong men, but found dainty 
 morsels for its bloody maw in innocent women 
 and children. Whole families, crazed by the belief 
 
YA TIL. 73 
 
 that capture was worse than death, fought in the 
 ranks with the soldiers. Women ambushed in 
 coverts shot the Russians as they rummaged the 
 captured trains for much-needed food. Little 
 children, thrown into the snow by the flying 
 parents, died of cold and starvation, or were 
 trampled to death by passing cavalry. Such a 
 useless waste of human life has not been recorded 
 since the indiscriminate massacres of the Middle 
 Ages. 
 
 The sight of human suffering soon blunts the 
 sensibilities of any one who lives with it, so that he 
 is at last able to look upon it with no stronger feel- 
 ing than that of helplessness. Resigned to the in- 
 evitable, he is no longer impressed by the woes 
 of the individual. He looks upon the illness, 
 wounds, and death of the soldier as a part of the 
 lot of all combatants, and comes to consider him 
 an insignificant unit of the great mass of men. At 
 last only novelties in horrors will excite his feel- 
 ings. 
 
 I was riding back from the Stanimaka battle-field 
 sufficiently elated at the prospect of a speedy 
 termination of the war now made certain by the 
 breaking up of Suleiman's army to forget where 
 I was, and to imagine myself back in my comfort- 
 able apartments in Paris. I only awoke from my 
 dream at the station where the highway from 
 Stanimaka crosses the railway line about a mile 
 south of Philippopolis. The great wooden bar- 
 racks had been used as a hospital for wounded 
 
74 YA TIL. 
 
 Turks, and as I drew up my horse at the door the 
 last of the lot of four hundred, who had been starv- 
 ing there nearly a week, were being placed upon 
 carts to be transported to the town. The road to 
 Philippopolis was crowded with wounded and 
 refugees. Peasant families struggled along with 
 all their household goods piled upon a single cart. 
 Ammunition wagons and droves of cattle, rushing 
 along against the tide of human beings, toward 
 the distant bivouacs, made the confusion hopeless. 
 Night was fast coming on, and in company with a 
 Cossack, who was, like myself, seeking the head- 
 quarters of General Gourko, I made my way 
 through the tangle of men, beasts, and wagons 
 toward the town. It was one of those chill, wet 
 days of winter when there is little comfort away 
 from a blazing fire, and when good shelter for the 
 night is an absolute necessity. The drizzle had 
 drenched my garments, and the snow-mud had 
 soaked my boots. Sharp gusts of piercing wind 
 drove the cold mist along, and as the temperature 
 fell in the late afternoon the slush of the roads be- 
 gan to stiffen, and the fog froze where it gathered. 
 Every motion of the limbs seemed to expose some 
 unprotected part of the body to the cold and wet. 
 No amount of exercise that was possible with 
 stiffened limbs and in wet garments would warm 
 the blood. Leading my horse, I splashed along, 
 holding my arms away from my body, and only 
 moving my benumbed fingers to wipe the chill drip 
 from my face. It was weather to take the courage 
 
YATIL. 75 
 
 out of the strongest man, and the sight of the 
 soaked and shivering wounded, packed in the jolt- 
 ing carts or limping through the mud, gave me, 
 hardened as I was, a painful contraction of the 
 heart. The best I could do was to lift upon my 
 worn-out horse one brave young fellow who was 
 hobbling along with a bandaged leg. Followed 
 by the Cossack, whose horse bore a similar bur- 
 den, I hurried along, hoping to get under cover 
 before dark. At the entrance to the town numer- 
 ous camp-fires burned in the bivouacs of the refu- 
 gees, who were huddled together in the shelter of 
 their wagons, trying to warm themselves in the 
 smoke of the wet fuel. I could see the wounded, 
 as they were jolted past in the heavy carts, look 
 longingly at the kettles of boiling maize which 
 made the evening meal of the houseless natives. 
 
 Inside the town the wounded and the refugees 
 were still more miserable than those we had passed 
 on the way. Loaded carts blocked the streets. 
 Every house was occupied, and the narrow side- 
 walks were crowded with Russian soldiers, who 
 looked wretched enough in their dripping over- 
 coats, as they stamped their rag-swathed feet. At 
 the corner, in front of the great Khan, motley 
 groups of Greeks, Bulgarians, and Russians were 
 gathered, listlessly watching the line of hobbling 
 wounded as they turned the corner to find their 
 way among the carts, up the hill to the hospital, 
 near the Konak. By the time I reached the Khan 
 the Cossack who accompanied me had fallen be- 
 
76 YATIL. 
 
 hind in the confusion, and without waiting for 
 him I pushed along, wading in the gutter, drag- 
 ging my horse by the bridle. Half way up the hill 
 I saw a crowd of natives watching with curiosity 
 two Russian guardsmen and a Turkish prisoner. 
 The latter was evidently exhausted, for he was 
 crouching in the freezing mud of the street. Pres- 
 ently the soldiers shook him roughly and raised 
 him forcibly to his feet, and half supporting him 
 between them they moved slowly along, the Turk 
 balancing on his stiffened legs and swinging from 
 side to side. 
 
 A most wretched object he was to look at. He 
 had neither boots nor fez. His feet were bare, and 
 his trowsers were torn off near the knee, and hung 
 in tatters around his mud-splashed legs. An end 
 of the red sash fastened to his waist trailed far be- 
 hind in the mud. A blue cloth jacket hung loosely 
 from his shoulders, and his hands and wrists 
 dangled from the ragged sleeves. His head rolled 
 around at each movement of the body, and at short 
 intervals the muscles of the neck would rigidly 
 contract. All at once he drew himself up with a 
 shudder and sank down in the mud again. 
 
 The guardsmen were themselves near the end of 
 their strength, and their patience was wellnigh 
 finished as well. Rough mountain marching had 
 torn the soles from their boots, and great unsightly 
 wraps of rawhide and rags were bound on their 
 feet. The thin worn overcoats, burned in many 
 places, flapped dismally against their ankles ; and 
 
YATIL. 77 
 
 their caps, beaten out of shape by many storms, 
 clung drenched to their heads. They were in no 
 condition to help any one to walk, for they could 
 scarcely get on alone. They stood a moment 
 shivering, looked at each other, shook their heads 
 as if discouraged, and proceeded to rouse the Turk 
 by hauling him upon his feet again. The three 
 moved on a few yards, and the prisoner fell again, 
 and the same operation was repeated. All this 
 time I was crowding nearer and nearer, and as I 
 got within a half dozen paces the Turk fell once 
 more, and this time lay at full length in the mud. 
 The guardsmen tried to rouse him by shaking, 
 but in vain. Finally, one of them, losing all 
 patience, pricked him with his bayonet on the 
 lower part of the ribs exposed by the raising of the 
 jacket as he fell. 1 was now near enough to act, 
 and with a sudden clutch I pulled the guardsman 
 away, whirled him around, and stood in his place. 
 As I was stooping over the Turk he raised himself 
 slowly, doubtless aroused by the pain of the punct- 
 ure, and turned on me a most beseeching look, 
 which changed at once into something like joy and 
 surprise. Immediately a deathlike pallor spread 
 over his face, and he sank back again with a 
 groan. 
 
 By this time quite a crowd of Bulgarians had 
 gathered around us, and seemed to enjoy the sight 
 of a suffering enemy. It was evident that they did 
 not intend to volunteer any assistance, so I helped 
 the wounded Russian down from my saddle, and 
 
78 YATIL. 
 
 invited the natives rather sternly to put the Turk 
 in his place. With true Bulgarian spirit they re- 
 fused to assist a Turk, and it required the argu- 
 ment of the rawhide (nagajka) to bring them to 
 their senses. Three of them, cornered and flogged, 
 lifted the unconscious man and carried him toward 
 the horse, the soldiers, meanwhile believing me to 
 be an officer, standing in the attitude of attention. 
 As the Bulgarians bore the Turk to the horse, a 
 few drops of blood fell to the ground. I noticed 
 then that he had his shirt tied around his left 
 shoulder, under his jacket. Supported in the sad- 
 dle by two natives on each side, his head falling 
 forward on his breast, the wounded prisoner was 
 carried with all possible tenderness to the Stafford 
 House hospital, near the Konak. As we moved 
 slowly up the hill I looked back, and saw the two 
 guardsmen sitting on the muddy sidewalk, with 
 their guns leaning against their shoulders too 
 much exhausted to go either way. 
 
 I found room for my charge in one of the upper 
 rooms of the hospital, where he was washed and 
 put into a warm bed. His wouncl proved to be a 
 severe one. A Berdan bullet had passed through 
 the thick part of the left pectoral, out again, and 
 into the head of the humerus. The surgeon said 
 that the arm would have to be operated on, to re- 
 move the upper quarter of the bone. 
 
 The next morning I went to the hospital to see 
 what had become of the wounded man, for the in- 
 cident of the previous evening made a deep impres' 
 
YA TIL. 79 
 
 sion on my mind. As I walked through the cor- 
 ridor I saw a group around a temporary bed in the 
 corner. Some one was evidently about to undergo 
 an operation, for an assistant held at intervals a 
 great cone of linen over a haggard face on the 
 pillow, and a strong smell of chloroform filled the 
 air. As I approached the surgeon turned around, 
 and recognizing me, with a nod and a smile said, 
 " We are at work on your friend." While he was 
 speaking he bared the left shoulder of the wounded 
 man, and I saw the holes made by the bullet as it 
 passed from the pectoral into the upper part of the 
 deltoid. Without waiting longer, the surgeon 
 made a straight cut downward from near the 
 acromion through the thick fibre of the deltoid to 
 the bone. He tried to sever the tendons to slip the 
 head of the humerus from the socket, but failed. 
 He wasted no time in further trial, but made a 
 second incision from the bullet-hole diagonally to 
 the middle of the first cut, and turned the pointed 
 flap thus made up over the shoulder. It was now 
 easy to unjoint the bones, and but a moment's 
 work to saw off the shattered piece, tie the 
 severed arteries, and bring the flap again into its 
 place. 
 
 There was no time to pause, for the surgeon be- 
 gan to fear the effects of the chloroform on the 
 patient. We hastened to revive him by every 
 possible means at hand, throwing cold water on 
 him and warming his hands and feet. Although 
 under the influence of chloroform to the degree 
 
8o YA TIL. 
 
 that he was insensible to pain, he had not been 
 permitted to lose his entire consciousness, and he 
 appeared to be sensible of what we were doing. 
 Nevertheless, he awoke slowly, very slowly, the 
 surgeon meanwhile putting the stitches in the in- 
 cision. At last he raised his eyelids and made a 
 movement with his lips. With a deliberate move- 
 ment he surveyed the circle of faces gathered 
 closely around the bed. There was something in 
 his eyes which had an irresistible attraction for me, 
 and I bent forward to await his gaze. As his eyes 
 met mine they changed as if a sudden light had 
 struck them, and the stony stare gave way to a 
 look of intelligence and recognition. Then, 
 through the beard of a season's growth and behind 
 the haggard mask before me, I saw at once the 
 circus-rider of Turin and Paris. I remember being 
 scarcely excited or surprised at the meeting, for a 
 great sense of irresponsibility came over me, and I 
 involuntarily accepted the coincidence as a matter 
 of course. He tried in vain to speak, but held up 
 his right hand, and feebly made with his fingers the 
 sign of the letter which had played such a part in 
 the story of his life. Even at that instant the light 
 left his eyes, and something like a veil seemed 
 drawn over them. With the instinctive energy 
 which possesses every one when there is a chance 
 of saving human life, we redoubled our efforts to 
 restore the patient to consciousness. But while 
 we strove to feed the flame with some of our own 
 vitality, it flickered and went out, leaving the hue 
 
YATIL. 8 1 
 
 of ashes where the rosy tinge of life had been. 
 His heart was paralyzed. 
 
 As I turned away, my eye caught the surgeon's 
 incision, which was now plainly visible on the left 
 shoulder. The cut was in the form of the letter Y. 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 BY PARK BENJAMIN. 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 THE WAR CLOUD. 
 
 TOWARDS dusk on the afternoon of Monday, 
 December 5th, 1881, the French steamer 
 " Canada," from Havre, arrived at her pier in New 
 York City. Among the passengers was a tall, 
 dark, rather fine-looking man, of about middle- 
 age. After the usual examination of his baggage 
 by the Custom House officials had been made, this 
 person, accompanied by a lady, took a hack at the 
 entrance of the pier, and was driven to the Fifth 
 Avenue Hotel. The initials on the luggage strap- 
 ped on the rear of the vehicle were M. B. 
 
 In conversing with the driver the gentleman 
 for his appearance and bearing fully indicated his 
 right to the title spoke English, though some- 
 
 *** Fiction^ October 31, 1881. 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 83 
 
 what imperfectly ; with the lady he talked in 
 sonorous Castilian. 
 
 Apparently, no one bestowed any particular no- 
 tice upon the pair. They were two foreigners out 
 of the great throng of foreigners which lands daily 
 in the metropolis ; they were Spaniards and reason- 
 ably well-to-do, seeing that they came over in the 
 saloon, and not in the steerage. 
 
 The names registered at the hotel were Manuel 
 Blanco and wife. 
 
 Late during the following evening the lady per- 
 sonally came to the office seemingly in great dis- 
 tress. An interpreter being procured, it was 
 learned that Senor Blanco, in response to a visit- 
 ing-card sent to his room, had left the apartment 
 shortly after breakfast that morning, and had not 
 since returned. 
 
 The lady explained that he had no business 
 affairs in New York, and that they were merely 
 resting in the city for a few days to recover from 
 the effects of the ocean voyage, before going to 
 Charleston, S. C., their destination. 
 
 The clerk in the office simply knew that a 
 stranger had called and sent a card to Senor 
 Blanco, and that the two, after meeting, had left 
 the hotel together. 
 
 The anxiety of Senora Blanco was evidently ex- 
 cessive. She rejected such commonplace reasons 
 as that her husband might have lost his way, or 
 that some unlooked-for business matters had 
 claimed his attention. 
 
84 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 " No, no !" she repeated, almost hysterically ; 
 11 no beezness. Ah, Dios ! El est muerte." 
 
 A physician was sent for, and the lady, who was 
 fast reaching a stage of nervous prostration, placed 
 in his care. The hotel detective proceeded at once 
 to Police Headquarters, whence telegrams were 
 despatched to the various precincts, giving a 
 description of the missing man, and making in- 
 quiries concerning him. The replies were all in 
 the negative : no such person had come under the 
 notice of the police. 
 
 From what has thus far been narrated, it might 
 be inferred that Blanco' s absence was due to one 
 of those strange disappearances which happen in 
 great cities. The inference, however, would be 
 wrong. Blanco had not disappeared. 
 
 True, his agonized wife and the police of New 
 York City had no trace of his whereabouts ; but 
 Mr. Michael Chalmette, an officer detailed by the 
 U. S. Marshal in New Orleans to arrest Leon 
 Sangrado, at the request of the Republic of Chili, 
 on the charge of repeatedly committing murder 
 and highway robbery in that country, was entirely 
 sure that the missing person was sitting beside 
 him, handcuffed to his left wrist, and that both 
 were speeding toward New Orleans as fast as a 
 railway-car could take them. 
 
 When the French steamer " Canada" arrived, 
 Mr. Michael Chalmette, wearing the uniform and 
 badge of a Custom House officer, stationed him- 
 self by the gang-plank and narrowly scrutinized 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 85 
 
 each passenger that came ashore. While Blanco' s 
 trunks were being examined, he stood near that 
 gentleman, and furtively compared his features with 
 those on a photograph. It was Chalmette who 
 sent the card to Blanco' s room, in the hotel, next 
 day, and who induced Blanco to accompany him 
 in a carriage, as he said, to the Custom House, to 
 arrange some irregularity in the passing of Blan- 
 co' s luggage. The driver of that carriage, how- 
 ever, was told to go to the Pennsylvania Railroad 
 Depot, in Jersey City. 
 
 Blanco evinced some surprise on being taken 
 across the ferry, but was easily satisfied by his 
 companion's explanation that the branch of the 
 Custom House to be visited was on the Jersey side. 
 
 When the station was reached Chalmette led the 
 way to the waiting-room, and quietly observed, 
 before the unsuspecting Blanco could finish a sen- 
 tence beginning : 
 
 " Ees it posseeble zat zees is ze Custom " 
 
 " You are my prisoner. You had better come 
 without making trouble." 
 
 Blanco looked at him aghast not half compre- 
 hending the words. 
 
 " A prisoner I for what ?" 
 
 Chalmette returned no answer, but produced his 
 warrant. 
 
 " But I no understand I " 
 
 Just then the warning bell rung. Chalmette 
 seized his prisoner by the arm and pushed him 
 through the gateway. 
 
86 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 On the platform Blanco made some slight resist- 
 ance. The policeman, whose attention was at- 
 tracted thereby, after a few words with Chalmette, 
 assisted the latter in forcing him upon the train, 
 which was already slowly moving out of the 
 
 depot. 
 
 ****** 
 
 It is necessary to break the thread of the story 
 here to note an odd coincidence. While there is a 
 French steamer " Canada" belonging to the Com- 
 pagnie Generate Trans- Atlantique, and plying be- 
 tween New York and Havre, there is also an Eng- 
 lish steamer " Canada" belonging to the National 
 Line, which travels between New York and Lon- 
 don. It so happened that on the same afternoon 
 that the French vessel came in, as before narrated, 
 the English steamer of like name also arrived. 
 
 Among the passengers who landed from the 
 English " Canada" there was also a couple, man 
 and woman, apparently Spaniards, and there was 
 an undeniable resemblance between the man and 
 Blanco. The former, however, had features cast 
 in a much rougher mould, and his general bearing 
 indicated that he was not a gentleman, as plainly 
 as Blanco's did the reverse. 
 
 The luggage of the pair consisted of a single 
 valise, which was carried by the woman, the man 
 striding on ahead, leisurely puffing a cigarette. 
 They hired no carriage, but walked from the pier, 
 across and up West Street, and took a street-car 
 going to the east side of the city. 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 87 
 
 As soon as they left the conveyance the man 
 spread out his arms and expanded his chest with a 
 long breath. The woman half smiled, and said 
 something to him in Spanish. Then they mingled 
 with the crowd around Tompkins Square and dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 Two days after Blanco's arrest the physician, 
 now in constant attendance upon his wife, filed 
 the death certificate of a stillborn child. Puer- 
 peral fever set in, and the life of the unhappy 
 woman for more than two weeks trembled in the 
 balance. During the first week a telegram from 
 New Orleans, which Blanco's captor had permitted 
 him to send, came, addressed to her. 
 
 The physician opened it ; but as she was almost 
 constantly unconscious, it was impossible to inform 
 her of its contents for some days. Then she was 
 simply told that her husband had been heard from, 
 and was safe. The doctor peremptorily forbade 
 any information being given her of Blanco's true 
 situation ; and as she could not understand the 
 language, and so glean intelligence from the news- 
 papers, which contained reports of the inquiry 
 conducted by the Commissioner, and the complete 
 identification of the prisoner as Leon Sangrado, 
 she, of course, remained in ignorance of what had 
 happened. 
 
 Some five weeks elapsed before she was judged 
 sufficiently strong to bear the shock which such 
 news would inevitably produce. Then she was 
 
88 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 told as gently as possible, all mention of the nature 
 of the charges against Blanco being avoided. 
 
 She listened in silent surprise. 
 
 " But he has never been in Chili in his life," she 
 insisted. 
 
 The old doctor, himself a Spaniard, looked at 
 her pityingly, but said nothing. 
 
 " He has been Consul before nowhere but at 
 Trieste ; how could he have been in South 
 America ?" she continued. 
 
 " Consul ? Is your husband, then, in the Con- 
 sular service of Spain ?" queried the doctor, some- 
 what surprised. 
 
 "He is here as Consul to Charleston in ah, 
 what is the name ? Carolina." 
 
 "Can you prove that?" demanded the phy- 
 sician, somewhat excitedly. 
 
 " I can that is, I think there are official papers 
 in the trunks. Is it necessary ?" 
 
 "Very necessary." 
 
 " Here are the keys, then." 
 
 The doctor in her presence opened the luggage, 
 and in a curiously arranged secret compartment in 
 one of the trunks found the documents. After a 
 few moments spent in looking them over, he said : 
 
 " Do you feel strong to-day ?" 
 
 " Not very." 
 
 " I think you could travel, however. I will see 
 that your baggage is properly packed, if you will 
 be prepared to accompany me to-morrow morn- 
 ing." 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 89 
 
 "But whither?" 
 
 " To Washington ; to the Spanish Minister. 
 This is a serious business." 
 
 Under the supervision of the doctor the journey 
 was safely accomplished. After proper repose 
 Sefiora Blanco and the physician proceeded to the 
 Spanish Legation, and within a very short time 
 Seiior Antonio Mantilla, Minister Plenipotentiary 
 and Envoy Extraordinary of His Catholic Majesty, 
 was in possession of Blanco' s papers, and of the 
 facts, so far as known to his visitors, attending 
 that gentleman's arrest. 
 
 Sefior Mantilla looked grave and said little. He 
 thanked the physician, however, warmly for the 
 part he had taken in the matter, and calling a 
 secretary placed Sefiora Blanco in his charge, with 
 instructions that she should receive the greatest 
 care and attention. 
 
 He then desired the attendance of his Secretary of 
 Legation, and the two officials remained in earnest 
 consultation for more than two hours. During 
 this period several telegrams were sent to the 
 Spanish Consul at New Orleans, and a long cipher- 
 message to the Minister of Foreign Affairs in Mad- 
 rid. 
 
 A few days later a lengthy report was received 
 from the Consul at New Orleans, accompanied by 
 three letters from Blanco to his wife, not one of 
 which had been forwarded from the jail in which 
 he was confined. 
 
 Another consultation was held at the Spanish 
 
90 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 Legation, during which this report and an answer- 
 ing message from Madrid were frequently referred 
 to. 
 
 The report set forth the facts of the identifica- 
 tion of Blanco as Sangrado by the Chilian repre- 
 sentatives, with sufficient certainty to convince the 
 U. S. Commissioner. Until a late period in the 
 inquiry Blanco had had no counsel. He had, 
 however, asseverated from the beginning that he 
 was the Consul of Spain at Charleston a fact not 
 believed, because there was already a Consul resi- 
 dent at that place. Communication with that 
 official simply showed that he expected to be trans- 
 ferred to another post, but had not been informed 
 of the name of his successor. The Commissioner, 
 seeing that Blanco was doing nothing to obtain 
 testimony in his own favor, quietly arranged that 
 counsel should be provided for him ; and the 
 lawyers, as a matter of course, at once sent to New 
 York for Blanco' s papers. 
 
 Senora Blanco, being then in a dangerous con- 
 dition, was helpless. Search was made through 
 the trunks, without finding any trace of the docu- 
 ments hidden in the secret compartment. 
 
 The Legation of Spain in Washington had in- 
 formation that Manuel Blanco had been sent to 
 assume the Consulship at Charleston, but no one 
 could personally identify the prisoner to be the 
 Manuel Blanco appointed. 
 
 The Chilian witnesses had sworn that the pris- 
 oner was Leon Sangrado in the most unequivocal 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 91 
 
 manner and Chalmette deposed that he saw him 
 land from the " Canada," in which vessel he had 
 been instructed to look for the fugitive. 
 
 The facts, as thus gathered by the Spanish diplo- 
 matists from the Consul at New Orleans, from 
 Senora Blanco, and from her physician, were com- 
 plete. The outcome of their deliberations upon 
 them was twofold. 
 
 First. The departure of Senora Blanco, under care 
 of an attache of the Spanish Legation, to 
 join her husband at New Orleans. 
 
 Second. The following diplomatic communication 
 from the Minister of Spain to the Secretary 
 of State of the United States of America. 
 
 LEGATION OF SPAIN AT WASHINGTON, ) 
 January i6th, 1882. ) 
 
 The undersigned, Envoy Extraordinary and 
 Minister Plenipotentiary of His Catholic Majesty., 
 has the honor to address the Honorable Secretary 
 of State, with a view to obtaining from the 
 Federal Government reparation for the arrest of 
 Senor Don Manuel Blanco, His Catholic Majesty's 
 Consul at Charleston, S. C., at the demand of the 
 Republic of Chili, on a charge of crime preferred 
 by the Government of that country. The under- 
 signed is instructed to protest, in the most distinct 
 terms, against this grave breach of international 
 obligations, to insist upon the immediate release 
 of the said Blanco, and to require from the Federal 
 
92 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 Government an apology suited to the circum- 
 stances. 
 The undersigned avails himself, etc., 
 
 ANTONIO MANTILLA. 
 
 DEPARTMENT OF STATE, ) 
 WASHINGTON, January 2oth, 1882. ) 
 
 SIR : Referring to your communication of the i6th 
 inst., in which you protest against the arrest of the 
 person alleged to be Seiior Don Manuel Blanco, 
 His Catholic Majesty's Consul at Charleston, at 
 the instance of the Republic of Chili, and demand 
 the release of the said person, with a suitable 
 apology from this Government in the premises, I 
 have the honor to inform you that the representa- 
 tives of the Chilian Government allege the person 
 in question to be one Leon Sangrado, a fugitive 
 from justice, charged with the crimes of murder 
 and robbery ; that, before the United States Com- 
 missioner at New Orleans, the Chilian representa- 
 tives have produced evidence identifying the pris- 
 oner as Leon Sangrado, which evidence has war- 
 ranted the said Commissioner in rendering judg- 
 ment accordingly ; and that the proceedings and 
 judgment, on review by the President of the 
 United States, have been confirmed, and the war- 
 rant of extradition ordered. I have the honor to 
 transmit herewith a copy of the record of the evi- 
 dence in the case for your Excellency's informa- 
 tion. I have also to state that, in the circum- 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 93 
 
 stances, this Government conceives itself to be act- 
 ing in a spirit of strict international comity with 
 the Republic of Chili, and, upon the representa- 
 tions made by your Excellency, cannot admit that 
 any reparation or apology is due to the Govern- 
 ment of His Catholic Majesty. 
 I have the honor, etc., 
 
 JAS. G. ELAINE, 
 
 Secretory of State. 
 
 Some days later the Spanish Minister forwarded 
 a note to the State Department, wherein, after the 
 usual formal recitals, he stated as follows : 
 
 The undersigned has the honor to inform the 
 Honorable Secretary of State that, having trans- 
 mitted his communication by cable to the Govern- 
 ment of His Catholic Majesty, he is now instructed 
 to make the following demands : 
 
 i st. That the Federal Government shall deliver 
 Sefior Don Manuel Blanco, His Catholic Majesty's 
 Consul at Charleston, S. C., alleged to be Leon 
 Sangrado, a fugitive from justice from the Repub- 
 lic of Chili, to the undersigned, at the Legation of 
 Spain at Washington, by or before the first day of 
 February, proximo. 
 
 2. That the Federal Government shall address to 
 the Government of His Catholic Majesty a formal 
 and solemn apology for the insult offered by the 
 arrest of said Blanco. And, in further proof 
 thereof, shall, on said first day of February, at 
 noon, cause the Spanish flag to be hoisted over 
 
94 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 Fort Columbus, in New York Harbor ; Fort War- 
 ren, in Boston Harbor ; the Navy Yard, in Wash- 
 ington ; and at the mast-head of the flag-ship of 
 the North Atlantic squadron then and there to be 
 saluted with twenty-one guns. 
 
 I have the honor, etc., 
 
 ANTONIO MANTILLA. 
 
 The reply sent by Secretary Elaine to this 
 peremptory demand was, as might be expected, an 
 equally peremptory refusal. 
 
 Thereupon the Spanish Minister demanded his 
 passports, and with his Legation left the country. 
 
 The passports of the American Minister at 
 Madrid were at the same time forwarded to him, 
 and he returned to the United States. 
 
 Blanco was delivered to the Chilian representa- 
 tives, and duly extradited, his wife accompanying 
 him. 
 
 The anti-administration newspapers commented 
 with great severity upon the case, alleging that 
 undue haste was manifested in forwarding the 
 proceedings ; that proper opportunity was not 
 afforded the accused to establish his true identity ; 
 that the warrant of extradition was illegal, inas- 
 much as it had been issued by an Assistant Secre- 
 tary of State during the absence of both the Presi- 
 dent and Secretary from Washington, and that, 
 consequently, there had been in fact no real review 
 of the proceedings by the Executive. 
 
 The administration journals, on the contrary, 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 95 
 
 found the extradition of the prisoner to be per- 
 fectly within the letter of the law ; but were not 
 inclined to say much on this point, preferring 
 rather to applaud Mr. Elaine's new proof of a 
 "vigorous foreign policy," as exemplified in the 
 previously quoted correspondence with the Spanish 
 Minister. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE GATHERING OF THE STORM. 
 
 That the friendly relations of two great nations 
 should be ruptured by a difficulty which, to all ap- 
 pearances, might easily have been adjusted, seems 
 incredible ; but it should be remembered that at 
 this period Spain and the United States were by 
 no means on the best of terms. Spanish war- 
 vessels in the West Indies had been overhauling 
 American merchantmen in a high-handed way, 
 which had already called forth the remonstrances 
 of our Government ; and the complaints from 
 Cuba of the insecurity of property and life of 
 American citizens had become more numerous than 
 ever. Still, the result of the dispute was a surprise 
 to the world ; especially as the overt act of rupture 
 
96 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 had come from Spain, and not from the United 
 States, as had so frequently hitherto seemed prob- 
 able. 
 
 The popular excitement throughout the country 
 was intense. There was a universal demand for 
 war. It was pointed out that the country was 
 never so prosperous, or better able to bear the 
 burden of a conflict ; that, with our immense re- 
 sources, an army could be raised and a navy 
 equipped inside of sixty days ; that such a war 
 would be of short duration, and that the result 
 could be none other than the humiliation of Spain, 
 and the ceding to us of the Spanish West Indies as 
 a war indemnity. 
 
 The House of Representatives fairly rung with 
 bellicose speeches, and the press, with a few excep- 
 tions, reflected the popular feeling. 
 
 On the other hand, however, there was a power- 
 ful party attempting to stem the precipitancy of 
 the nation. The great moneyed corporations view- 
 ed the matter with alarm, and advocated peaceful 
 settlement, or, at most, inaction. This, however, 
 was attributed to their fears of unsettlement of 
 values, and consequent depreciation of their prop- 
 erty. 
 
 The Senate, refusing to be influenced by popular 
 clamor, steadily opposed all hasty legislation orig- 
 inating in the lower House. The President and 
 Cabinet brought down upon themselves the bitter 
 denunciation of the opposition press for " coward- 
 ly truckling to Spain," because no immediate steps 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 97 
 
 were taken to place army and navy on a war foot- 
 ing, and no volunteers were called for. 
 
 A month went by. The popular excitement in 
 this period perceptibly decreased ; and, as it did 
 so, the New York World and Tribune, which, from 
 the first, had given but weak support to the cry for 
 war, became more outspoken against hostilities. 
 The bill agreed to by both Houses of Congress, 
 providing for the immediate construction of ten 
 swift armored cruisers, was strongly attacked in 
 both journals, and the arming of the harbor forts, 
 and the elaborate preparations which began to be 
 visible for protecting the harbor by torpedoes, were 
 sneered at as " useless precautions, dictated by an 
 unworthy fear of a nation which would never vent- 
 ure to attack us." 
 
 The stocks of the New York Central, Western 
 Union Telegraph, Lake Shore, and other corpora- 
 tions controlled by Vanderbilt and Jay Gould, 
 which had fallen during the excitement of the pre- 
 vious month, rose slowly, but steadily. 
 
 On the afternoon of March 6th, the Evening Tele- 
 gram issued an extra, reporting the sailing from 
 Corufia of four Spanish ironclads. The announce- 
 ment on the London Stock Exchange was that they 
 were going to Cuba. 
 
 On the following day there was a decided fall in 
 American securities in London, and a weak market 
 in Wall Street ; which degenerated into a rapidly 
 declining one when it became rumored that Gould 
 was selling Western Union short in large blocks, 
 
98 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 and that Vanderbilt's brokers were similarly dis- 
 posing of N. Y. Central and other stocks. 
 
 At 10 o'clock that night the news came that 
 Spain had formally declared war upon the United 
 States. It was posted in all the hotels, and read 
 from the stages of all the theatres. The people 
 flocked into the streets en masse. Speeches were 
 made, breathing defiance and demands for an im- 
 mediate attack upon Spain, before tremendous 
 crowds, in Madison and Union Squares. No one 
 slept that night. 
 
 Next morning there was a panic in Wall Street, 
 which was arrested, however, by the intelligence 
 from London that, although Government four-per- 
 cents had fallen to 86, they were steady at that 
 figure, and that the Rothschilds and Baring 
 Brothers were buying them in largely. Before 
 night Congress had voted a special appropriation 
 of a hundred million dollars for purposes of 
 defense, authorized the immediate construction of 
 twenty armored ships, and the President issued his 
 proclamation, calling for the raising of four hun- 
 dred thousand men " to repel an invasion of the 
 Union." 
 
 Within twenty-four hours the regiments of the 
 National Guard in New York and vicinity were 
 mustered into the service of the United States and 
 ordered into camp, under command of General 
 Hancock. That officer at once began the construc- 
 tion of sea-coast batteries on Coney Island, Rocka- 
 way Beach, and the New Jersey coast. A crack 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 99 
 
 city regiment was detailed to complete the par- 
 tially finished fort on Sandy Hook and throw up 
 earthworks along the Peninsula ; but, as the hands 
 of most of the men became quite sore through 
 wielding shovels and picks, they were relieved and 
 sent to garrison Governor's Island, where they gave 
 exhibition drills daily, and, on Friday evenings, 
 invited their female friends to hops of the most 
 enjoyable description. The Hook fort was subse- 
 quently completed by a volunteer regiment of 
 Cuban cigar-makers, from the Bowery. 
 
 As a matter of course, notice was immediately 
 given to all foreign vessels in port of the proposed 
 blocking of the Narrows and the Main, Swash and 
 East Channels with torpedoes, and forty-eight 
 hours' time was accorded them wherein to take 
 their departure. The European steamers were the 
 first to leave, each one towing from two to five 
 sailing-vessels. Later on, General Hancock im- 
 pressed all the harbor tugs into service ; and, by 
 their aid, before the specified period had elapsed, 
 not a single ship floating a foreign flag remained 
 in New York Harbor. A battalion of army en- 
 gineers, under command of General Abbot, and 
 another of sailors, under Captain Selfridge, at 
 once began operations. 
 
 In the Narrows, torpedoes were moored at dis- 
 tances of one hundred feet apart, and were con- 
 nected with the shore by electric wires. At various 
 points along the beach shell-proof huts were con- 
 structed, to which these wires led. In each hut 
 
100 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 was arranged a camera lucida, so that a picture of 
 the harbor, over a limited area, was thrown upon a 
 whitened table. In this way an observer could 
 recognize the instant an enemy's vessel arrived 
 over a sunken mine, and could explode the latter 
 by simply touching a button which allowed the 
 electric current to pass to the torpedo. In the 
 Harbor channels the torpedoes were so arranged 
 as to be exploded on contact of an enemy's vessel 
 with a partially submerged buoy. 
 
 The torpedo-stations on Staten and Coney 
 Islands and the Jersey coast were provided with 
 movable fish-torpedoes of the Ericsson and Lay 
 types, intended to be sent out against a hostile 
 vessel, and manoeuvred from the shore. All the 
 steam-tugs in the Harbor were moored in Gowanus 
 bay, and each tug was rigged with a long boom 
 projecting from her bow, on which a torpedo, con- 
 taining some fifty pounds of dynamite, was car- 
 ried. 
 
 With the tugs, and serving as flag-ship for the 
 squadron, was the U. S. torpedo-boat "Alarm," 
 Lieutenant-Commander H. H. Gorringe. 
 
 The armament of the sea-coast batteries was not 
 calculated to strike terror into the soul of any 
 nation owning a modern iron-clad vessel. It con- 
 sisted mainly of old-fashioned smooth-bore guns, a 
 system of artillery which has been rejected by 
 every European power as the weakest and most 
 inefficient. The greatest range attainable with the 
 best of these cannon was 8000 yards, or some four 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 161 
 
 and one half miles. At one quarter this range 
 their shot would be utterly unable to penetrate 
 even moderately thin armor. Besides these guns 
 there were a few ten and twelve-inch rifles of cast- 
 iron, and hence of unreliable and inferior material ; 
 some old smooth-bore cannon, converted into rifles 
 by wrought-iron linings ; and a number of mortars 
 and pieces of small calibre, altogether contemptible 
 in the light of the advances made in the art of war 
 during the last quarter of a century. 
 
 Meanwhile the inventors were not idle, and the 
 press fairly teemed with novel suggestions for the 
 defense of the city. It was proposed to run all the 
 oil stored in the Williamsburgh refineries into the 
 lower bay, and set it on fire when the enemy's fleet 
 appeared. 
 
 The Herald suggested the raising of a regiment 
 of divers to live in a submarine fort, the guns of 
 which should be arranged to fire upwards into a 
 vessel floating above, and immediately offered to 
 contribute $250,000 to begin the construction of 
 such defenses. 
 
 General Newton proposed the building of con- 
 tinuous earthworks on both shores of the bay and 
 Narrows, behind which a broad-gauge railroad 
 should be constructed. On the track he placed 
 heavy platform-cars, each car carrying one heavy 
 gun. Embrasures were made at regular intervals 
 along the embankment. His idea was, that if a 
 hostile vessel made her way into the Harbor, the 
 gun-cars should move along behind the earth- 
 
162 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 works, keeping abreast of the ship, and thus pour 
 into her a continuous fire. Measures were 
 promptly taken to follow this plan. 
 
 Mr. T. A. Edison announced that he had in- 
 vented everything which, up to that time, any one 
 else had suggested. He invited all the reporters 
 to Menlo Park, and, after elaborately explaining 
 the merits of a new catarrh remedy, showed some 
 lines on a piece of paper, which, he said, repre- 
 sented huge electro-magnets, which he proposed to 
 set up along the coast, say, near Barnegat. When 
 the enemy's iron ships appeared, he proposed to 
 excite these magnets, and draw the vessels on the 
 rocks. Somebody said that this notion had been 
 anticipated by one Sindbad the Sailor, where- 
 upon Mr. Edison denounced that person as a 
 " patent pirate." He also said that these mag- 
 nets would be exhibited in working order next 
 Christmas Eve. 
 
 Professor Bell proposed the " induction bal- 
 ance," as a way of recognizing the approach of the 
 enemy's iron vessels. He went down the Bay with 
 his instrument, and sent back some telegrams 
 which were alarming, until it was discovered that 
 the professor had made a slight error in the direc- 
 tion from which he asserted the ships were coming, 
 it being manifestly impossible for them to sail 
 overland from the Pacific, as his contrivance pre- 
 dicted. 
 
 The condition of affairs in the city reminded one 
 of the early days of the Rebellion. Wall Street 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 103 
 
 was panicky chiefly because of the immense 
 depreciation in railway securities. Government 
 four-per-cent bonds, however, had gone up to 
 ninety-eight. Provisions were high, and, through 
 the stoppage of European commerce, the cost of 
 imported articles, such as dress-goods, tea, etc., 
 became excessive. Recruiting was going on 
 everywhere ; the regiments, as fast as organized, 
 being dispatched to different points along the sea- 
 board, or to swell the numbers of an army under 
 command of General Sheridan, which was prepar- 
 ing to sail to Key West, to invade Cuba. 
 
 During the month of March New York remained 
 in a state of suspense. Army contractors did a 
 brisk business ; but otherwise there was little 
 doing. News was eagerly sought. It was known 
 that Spain was mobilizing her army and fitting out 
 transports ; but beyond this, and the dispatching 
 of the four ironclads, which had duly reached 
 Havana, she had taken no steps pointing toward 
 an invasion of the United States. All the Euro- 
 pean nations had issued proclamations of neutral- 
 ity, except Russia and France. England had 
 ordered the great Spanish ironclad, " El Cid," in 
 which Sir William Armstrong had just placed two 
 loo-ton guns, out of her waters inside of twenty- 
 four hours after Spain had declared war ; and this, 
 although the vessel was in many respects un- 
 finished. The Queen's proclamation was most 
 stringent against the fitting out or coaling of the 
 vessels of either belligerent, and a special Act of 
 
1 64 THE END OF NEW YORtf. 
 
 Parliament was passed, inflicting penalties of the 
 greatest severity for any violation of it. John Bull 
 evidently proposed to pay for no more " Ala- 
 bamas. " 
 
 The first great news of the war came during the 
 first week in June. The Spanish screw corvette 
 " Tornado," six guns, had sailed from Cartagena 
 for Havana. Off Cape Trafalgar she encountered 
 the "Lancaster," flag-ship of the United States 
 European squadron, bearing the flag of Rear- 
 Admiral Nicholson. The " Lancaster" carried two- 
 eleven-inch and twenty nine-inch old-fashioned 
 smooth-bore Dahlgren guns. The action was 
 short, sharp, and decisive. 
 
 It terminated in the surrender of the " Tor- 
 nado," after the loss of her captain, five officers, 
 and forty of her crew. The " Lancaster" was 
 badly cut up about the rigging, but otherwise un- 
 injured. Her loss was but five men. The first 
 tidings of this was the arrival of the " Tornado" 
 in Hampton Roads, with a prize crew on board, 
 and the royal ensign of Spain floating beneath the 
 stars and stripes. 
 
 When the extras announcing the news were 
 shouted in the streets, the enthusiasm of the people 
 knew no bounds. From every building, from 
 every window, the flag was displayed. Throngs 
 of excited men marched through the avenues, 
 cheering and shouting, and the recruiting was re- 
 newed so vigorously, that New York's quota of the 
 four hundred thousand men called for by the 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 105 
 
 President was filled within the next twenty-four 
 hours after the news came. 
 
 In the midst of this furore, the bulletins 
 announced that the Spanish ironclads " Zaragoza" 
 and " Numancia" had sailed from Havana, with 
 no destination announced ; that their consorts, the 
 " Arapiles" and " Vittoria," together with three 
 transports, " San Quentin," " Patino," and " Fer- 
 rol," the latter well laden with coal and provisions, 
 were preparing to follow ; also, that the huge " El 
 Cid " had been fitted for sea, and was about to 
 sail from Vigo, Spain. 
 
 Just before this intelligence arrived, the United 
 States steam frigate " Franklin," forty-three guns, 
 carrying the flag of Vice-Admiral Stephen C. 
 Rowan, left Hampton Roads on a cruise, north- 
 wardly. 
 
 Where were the Spanish ironclads going ? 
 
 On Sunday morning, April gth, Trinity Church 
 was crowded with worshipers. The venerable 
 Bishop of New York was present, and was to 
 deliver the sermon. His erect, stately form, clad 
 in the flowing robes of his office, had just appeared 
 in the pulpit, and he had spoken the words of his 
 text, when a commotion in the rear of the church 
 caused him to stop and look up, wondering at the 
 unseemly interruption. 
 
 A soldier emerged from the crowd, and, making 
 his way to the Astor pew, handed a letter to Mr. 
 John Jacob Astor. The ruddy face of that gentle- 
 man blanched as he read its contents. Then he 
 
io6 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 rose, walked to the pulpit, and handed the missive 
 to the bishop. 
 
 A dead silence prevailed at last broken by these 
 simple words : 
 
 " Brethren, the war-vessels of the public enemy 
 have appeared off our Harbor. Let us pray." 
 
 A deep, heart-felt Amen responded to the appeal 
 made in eloquent, though faltering, tones ; and 
 then, quiet and orderly, the congregation left the 
 temple. It was fitting that such a prayer should 
 be the last ever offered in a sanctuary of which, 
 but a few days later, only a heap of smoking ruins 
 remained. 
 
 The same news had been forwarded to the other 
 churches, and the congregations, dismissed, had 
 gathered in front of the great buNetin-boards which 
 had been erected in the various parts of the city. 
 In huge letters were the words : 
 
 " A large steamer, showing Spanish flag, sighted 
 off Barnegat." 
 
 Shortly afterwards came another dispatch : 
 
 " The United States frigate ' Franklin ' has been 
 signaled off Fire Island." 
 
 Then another dispatch : 
 
 " The Spanish steamer has gone to the east- 
 ward. ' ' 
 
 And then, three hours later : 
 
 " Heavy firing has been heard from the south 
 and east." 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK, 107 
 
 II. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF FIRE ISLAND. 
 
 The " Franklin/' on leaving Fire Island, where 
 she had communication with the shore, stood to 
 the westward. At 3 P.M. the mast-head look-out 
 reported a large steamer on the port-bow. As is 
 customary on vessels at sea, the " Franklin" 
 showed no colors ; the stranger displayed a flag 
 which could not be made out. 
 
 On the poop-deck of the " Franklin" were 
 Admiral Rowan, Captain Greer, commanding the 
 ship, and the executive officer, Lieutenant-Com- 
 mander Jewell. 
 
 " Mast-head, there ! can you make out her colors 
 yet ?" hailed the latter. 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Take your glass and go aloft, Mr. Rodgers," 
 said Admiral Rowan to his aid ; "' perhaps you can 
 see better." 
 
 The officer rapidly ascended the rigging to the 
 foretopmast cross-trees. 
 
 " It is the English flag, sir !" he shouted. 
 
 " Hoist English colors, Captain," said the 
 admiral, quietly ; " and bend on our own, ready 
 to go up." 
 
 The red cross of St. George, the British man-of- 
 war flag, rose slowly to the peak. 
 
10 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 The stranger was seen to alter her course, and 
 head for the " Franklin." 
 
 The admiral turned to Captain Greer and 
 nodded. The latter gave an order to a midship- 
 man standing near. 
 
 Rat- tat rat-tat rat-tat - tat- tat ! 
 
 The quick drum-beat to quarters for action rang 
 sharply through the ship. The executive officer 
 took his speaking-trumpet and stationed himself 
 on the quarter-deck. The men sprang to their 
 guns. 
 
 " Silence ! man the port-guns. Cast loose and 
 provide !" 
 
 A momentary confusion, as the thirty-eight nine- 
 inch smooth-bore guns on the main-deck, the four 
 hundred-pound rifles on the spar-deck, and the 
 eleven-inch pivot on the forecastle were cleared of 
 their tackle, and got ready for training. The 
 guns' crews then stood erect and silent in their 
 places beside the guns, on the side of the ship 
 turned toward the enemy. 
 
 Meanwhile the magazine had been opened, and 
 the powder-boys flocked to the scuttles, receiving 
 cartridges in the leather boxes slung to their 
 shoulders. Shell were hoisted from below. The 
 surgeon and his assistants, including the chaplain, 
 laid out instruments, and converted the cock-pit 
 into an operating-room. The fires in the galley 
 were put out, and those under the boilers urged to 
 their fiercest heat. The decks were sanded, in 
 grim anticipation of their becoming slippery with 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 109 
 
 blood. Tackles and slings were prepared to lower 
 the wounded below. The Gatling guns aloft were 
 made ready to fire upon the enemy's decks, in case 
 the two vessels came near enough together. 
 
 " Prime !" shouted the officer on the quarter-deck. 
 Primers were placed in the vents of the already 
 loaded guns, and the gun-captains stepped back, 
 tautening the lock-strings, and bending down to 
 glance along the sights. 
 
 " Point ! Tell the division officers to train on 
 the craft that's coming, and wait orders." This 
 last command to a midshipman aid. 
 
 The silence throughout the great ship was pro- 
 found. The gun-captains eyed the approaching 
 vessels over the sights of their guns. Only the 
 quick throb of the engines and the sough of the 
 waves were audible. 
 
 The two vessels were now within some four miles 
 of each other. There was no question but that the 
 stranger was a man-of-war and an ironclad, at 
 that provided with a formidable ram. 
 
 "I thought so," suddenly ejaculated the 
 admiral : " Now show him who we are." 
 
 The English flag had been replaced by the red- 
 yellow-and-red bars of Spain. Down came the red 
 cross from the peak of the " Franklin ;" and then, 
 not only there, but from every mast-head, floated 
 the stars and stripes. 
 
 A puff of smoke from the Spaniard a whirr, a 
 shriek, and a solid shot struck the water, having 
 passed entirely over the American frigate. 
 
no THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 " He fires at long range !" rematrked the ad- 
 miral, calmly. 
 
 " It would be useless for us to reply," answered 
 the captain. 
 
 " Clearly so." 
 
 " Shall we stop and wait for him, sir ?" 
 
 " Wait for him ? No ! Go for him ! Four 
 bells, sir ! Ring four bells and go ahead fast !' 
 
 The clang of the engine-bell resounded through 
 the ship ; the thump of the machinery grew more 
 rapid ; the whole vessel thrilled and shook, as if 
 eager for the attack. 
 
 The distance between the two ships was reduced 
 to about two miles. 
 
 Again the Spaniard fired. The shot struck the 
 " Franklin" broad on her port-bow, knocked over 
 a gun, killed six men, and passed through the 
 other side of the ship. 
 
 Still the '* Franklin" pressed on. 
 
 Crash ! a huge shell from an Armstrong eigh- 
 teen-ton gun burst between the fore and main- 
 masts ; the bow pivot-gun was dismounted ; ten 
 men of her crew down ; the maintopmast stays 
 cut, and the maintopmast tottering. Crash ! An- 
 other shell, and the jib-boom hangs dragging 
 under the bows ; the fore topgallantmast is car- 
 ried away. Men hacked at the rigging to clear 
 away the wreck which now impeded the ship's 
 advance. 
 
 " Now let him have it," said the admiral, 
 quietly. 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. Ill 
 
 The captain speaks to the executive officer, 
 who shouts through his trumpet : " Port guns ! 
 Ready! Fire!!" 
 
 The concussion of the explosion made the ship 
 stagger for a moment. 
 
 When the smoke cleared away, the Spaniard's 
 mizzenmast was seen dragging overboard ; but 
 otherwise no damage had been inflicted. 
 
 " His armor is too thick for us," gravely re- 
 marked the admiral; "get boom torpedoes over 
 the bows !" 
 
 " All ready, now, sir,'* reported the captain. 
 
 " Continue firing, and keep right for him." 
 
 " Shall we ram him, sir ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; as straight amidships as you can." 
 
 The " Franklin" now poured in her fire with all 
 possible rapidity ; but it was evident that her shot 
 made little or no impression on the massive iron 
 shield of her antagonist, although it played havoc 
 amid his rigging. Another fact now became ap- 
 parent that the Spaniard was much the faster 
 vessel of the two ; for he was evidently nearing 
 the " Franklin" more quickly than the *' Franklin" 
 was approaching him. 
 
 44 Do you know who that ship is?" asked the 
 admiral. 
 
 "The * Numancia,' sir," replied the captain; 
 41 her armament is immensely better than ours. 
 She has twenty-five Armstrong guns." 
 
 Crash ! crash I Two more shells struck the 
 wooden hull of the '* Franklin" between the fore 
 
112 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 and mainmasts, tearing a great rent in her side and 
 literally annihilating the crews of four guns. 
 
 " There is three feet of water in the hold, sir, 
 and it is gaining!" shouted the carpenter at the 
 pump-well. 
 
 Men were sent at once to the pumps. 
 
 Crash ! This time a double explosion, followed 
 by dense clouds of steam. Men, scalded and hor- 
 ribly burned, climbed up the ladders from below. 
 
 " Our boilers are gone," reported the captain. 
 
 " Keep her broadside toward the enemy, sir," 
 returned the admiral. 
 
 The guns of the " Franklin" were now firing 
 slowly. Their smoke overhung the vessel so that 
 the Spaniard could not be seen, but the reports of 
 his cannon sounded closer and closer. 
 
 Suddenly the huge prow of the " Numancia" 
 loomed up close aboard the " Franklin." 
 
 " Starboard J Hard a starboard !" shouted the 
 admiral. 
 
 It was too late. There was no one at the helm. 
 A shell, bursting close to the wheel, had killed the 
 helmsman, and a fragment had buried itself in the 
 captain's breast. 
 
 The admiral himself turned to go toward the 
 wheel, but suddenly staggered and pitched for- 
 ward, dead. 
 
 Then came the frightful explosion of the 
 " Numancia's" bow-torpedo, striking the ill-fated 
 frigate ; and then the crushing and splintering of 
 timbers under the fearful stroke of the ram. 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 113 
 
 Five minutes afterwards the Spanish war-ship 
 was alone. Slowly the " Franklin" sank her 
 lofty mast-heads going under with the stars and 
 stripes still proudly floating from them. The 
 " Numancia" lowered her boats to pick up sur- 
 vivors. They returned with one officer and two 
 seamen all that remained of the crew of nearly 
 one thousand souls. 
 
 The American flag ship had been sunk by a 
 fourth-rate European ironclad the first practical 
 proof of the miserably short-sighted policy of a 
 nation of fifty millions of inhabitants, with an 
 enormous coast line and innumerable ports to be 
 protected, relying for its safety upon a navy the 
 fifty-five available vessels of which are too slow to 
 run away, and too lightly armed and too weakly 
 built to defend themselves. 
 
 The "Numancia" hoisted her boats and stood to 
 the westward. Shortly afterward she exchanged 
 signals with the " Zaragoza," " Arapiles" and 
 " Vittoria." The war-vessels drew together, the 
 transports came alongside of them, and fresh sup- 
 plies of coal and provisions were delivered. Then 
 the transports headed to the south, and the men- 
 of-war laid their course for New York. 
 
H4 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE METROPOLIS BELEAGUERED. 
 
 Three ships of the Spanish squadron named were 
 armed with Armstrong guns. Their combined 
 batteries aggregated eight cannon of eighteen tons, 
 four of twelve tons, eleven of nine tons, and twenty- 
 eight of seven tons. The " Zaragoza" carried 
 twenty guns of another pattern, ranging in calibre 
 from eleven to seven and three-fourths inches. 
 The total number of cannon which would thus be 
 brought to bear upon New York and its suburbs 
 was seventy-one. 
 
 The shot of the Armstrong guns above named 
 vary in weight from four hundred to one hundred 
 and fifteen pounds. If the entire number of guns 
 should each deliver one shot, the total amount of 
 iron projected would exceed six tons in weight. 
 
 The arrival of the Spanish vessels was not known 
 until dawn of the morning of April nth. Then 
 they were descried on the horizon by the watchers 
 at Sandy Hook. At first sight it was supposed 
 that they had encountered heavy weather and lost 
 their light spars ; but, as they approached nearer, 
 it was seen that each ship had sent down all her 
 upper rigging, and had housed topmasts. 
 
 There was no mistaking what this meant. It 
 was the stripping for battle, 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK, 115 
 
 It was also noticed that the ships steamed very 
 slowly in single file ; that from the bows of each 
 projected a fork-like contrivance, and that in ad- 
 vance of the leader were several steam-launches, 
 between which, and crossing the path of the large 
 vessel, extended hawsers which dipped into the 
 water. Evidently the new-comers had a whole- 
 some dread of torpedoes, and hence the use of bow 
 torpedo-catchers and the dragging-ropes. 
 
 No flag of any sort was exhibited. 
 
 Meanwhile the guns of all the sea-coast batteries 
 along the shores had been manned, ready to fire 
 upon the huge black monsters as soon as they 
 should come within range. The order had been 
 given to commence firing on the hoisting of a flag 
 and on the discharge of a heavy gun from the 
 signal station on Sandy Hook, where General 
 Hancock had posted himself with his staff. 
 
 In the city the time for excitement had passed. 
 The business section was deserted, most of the men 
 being either in the fortifications or under arms in 
 the camps, ready to move as directed to repel any 
 attempt on the part of the enemy to effect a land- 
 ing. 
 
 There had been no general exodus from New 
 York, as it was not believed possible that the 
 enemy's missiles could reach the city proper. In 
 Brooklyn, however, but few people remained. All 
 the churches in the city were open, and with sin- 
 gular unanimity the people flocked into them. No 
 public conveyances were running ; few vehicles 
 
n6 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 moved through the streets. The silence was like 
 that of a summer holiday, when the people are in 
 the suburbs, pleasure-seeking. 
 
 " They seem to have stopped, general," said an 
 aid who was attentively watching the advance of 
 the Spanish vessels through his glass. 
 
 " They are a long way out of our range," re- 
 marked General Hancock. " We have nothing 
 that carries far enough to injure them. They are 
 fully five miles out." 
 
 " Now they go ahead again. No, they are 
 turning," said the aid. 
 
 The leading ship had ported her helm, and, fol- 
 lowed by the others, filed to the eastward, bring- 
 ing the port broadsides to bear upon the Long 
 Island batteries. 
 
 " They certainly are not going into action 
 there," said the general. 
 
 A cloud of white smoke arose from the bow of 
 the leading vessel, and then across the water came 
 the deep " boom" of a heavy gun. 
 
 "Why, that fellow has fired out to sea," ex- 
 claimed one of the general's staff. 
 
 " No, it was a blank cartridge. He fired to 
 attract attention. See ! there goes a white flag up 
 to his mast-head !" said the officer at the telescope : 
 " A boat with a flag-of-truce is putting off, 
 general." 
 
 " Send a launch out to meet it," said Hancock, 
 shortly : " and see that it does not come nearer 
 than a mile or so from the shore." 
 
THE EtfD OF NEW YORK. 117 
 
 A few minutes after, the steam-yacht " Ideal," 
 which had been offered by its owner as a dispatch 
 boat to the general, was swiftly running towards 
 the Spanish messenger. 
 
 The aid at the telescope saw an officer step from 
 the Spanish boat into the yacht, and then the latter 
 put back to the Hook, the enemy's launch remain- 
 ing where she was. 
 
 The Spanish officer was conducted to the pres- 
 ence of the general. In excellent English, he 
 announced himself as the Fleet Captain and Chief- 
 of-Staff of the admiral commanding the Spanish 
 squadron present, and with much ceremony pre- 
 sented the communication with which he was 
 charged. 
 
 The general received the missive courteously and 
 opened it. The expression of astonishment which 
 came over his face as he read it for a moment gave 
 place to one of anger. His eyes flashed, his face 
 reddened, and his fingers nervously played with 
 the end of his moustache. Then, as he read it over 
 the second time, a rather contemptuous smile 
 seemed to lurk about the corners of his mouth. 
 
 The staff stood by in silent but eager anticipa- 
 tion. The general held the letter in his hands be- 
 hind his back and walked up and down the small 
 apartment, as if in deep thought, raising his eyes 
 occasionally to glance at the Spanish vessels, which 
 lay almost motionless, blowing off steam. 
 
 Finally, he turned to the Spanish officer, who 
 stood erect, with his hand resting upon the hilt of 
 
llS THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 his sword, and said, in a quiet, though determined, 
 voice : 
 
 " You will make my compliments to the admiral 
 commanding, and deliver, in reply to his com- 
 munication, that which I will now dictate." 
 
 An aid at once seated himself at the table, and, 
 at the general's dictation, wrote as follows : 
 
 SENOR DON ALMIRANTE VIZCARRO, Commanding 
 
 Squadron off New York. 
 
 SIR : I have the honor to acknowledge your com- 
 munication of this date, sent per flag-of-truce, in 
 which you demand 
 
 ist. That immediate surrender to the force under 
 your command be made of the fortifications 
 of this harbor, together with the Navy Yard 
 at Brooklyn, and all munitions of war here 
 existing. 
 
 2nd. That the cities of New York, Brooklyn and 
 Jersey City do cause to be paid, on board of 
 your flag-ship, within three days after the 
 said surrender, the sum of fifty millions of 
 dollars in gold, or in the paper currency of 
 England or France. 
 
 And in which you announce that non-ac- 
 quiescence in the foregoing will be followed 
 by the bombardment of the said fortifica- 
 tions, the Navy Yard and the arsenals in 
 New York City, by your squadron, after the 
 lapse of twenty-four hours from noon this 
 day. 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 119 
 
 In reply, I have to state that these demands are 
 peremptorily refused and I have most solemnly 
 to protest against so gross a violation of the laws 
 of civilized warfare, as is indicated in your inten- 
 tion to attack a city within a period too short to 
 enable the non-combatants to be safely removed. 
 I have the honor to be, etc., 
 
 WINFIELD S. HANCOCK, 
 
 Major- General Commanding. 
 
 This reply was telegraphed to New York, and 
 Mr. Pierrepont Edwards, Her Britannic Majesty's 
 Consul-General, was one of the first to receive it. 
 He acted with the usual force and promptness with 
 which British interests and the lives of British sub- 
 jects are protected by British officials abroad. 
 That is to say, he first telegraphed to the British 
 Minister at Washington, Mr. West, requesting, that 
 the three great iron-clads, " Devastation/' 
 " Orion" and " Agamemnon," all of which were 
 then in Hampton Roads, be at once sent to New 
 York. Then he prepared a formal protest against 
 the proposed action of the Spanish Admiral, which 
 all the other foreign consuls at once signed, and 
 which was delivered aboard the Spanish flag-ship 
 by a boat bearing the British flag before three 
 o'clock that afternoon. 
 
 The Spanish admiral took the protest into con- 
 sideration to the extent of granting forty-eight 
 hours' time. The consuls protested again at this 
 as not being sufficient, and demanded five clear 
 
120 TtJR END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 days. The admiral refused to grant more than 
 three ; but when, before the three days had ex- 
 pired, the trio of English war-ships made their ap- 
 pearance, and calmly moved between his fleet and 
 the shore, he changed his mind and granted the 
 desired time which was wise, seeing that the 
 English vessels could blow his squadron out of 
 water with little trouble and not much injury to 
 themselves. 
 
 The railroads which go out of New York, while 
 perhaps adequate for all purposes of traffic in time 
 of peace, are scarcely equal to the removal from 
 the city of several hundred thousand women, chil- 
 dren, sick and aged persons within a period of even 
 five days. People of this description cannot be 
 moved as easily as armies ; and hence, when the 
 morning of the fifth day dawned, fully one-half of 
 the non-combatant population was still in the city. 
 
 This, however, was attributable not only to the 
 inadequacy of the means of transportation, but to 
 the singular apathy it was not fearlessness of the 
 people themselves. In the great tenement dis- 
 tricts, it became necessary to send soldiers into the 
 houses to drive people out of them. 
 
 Among the Irish and Germans there was actual 
 rioting, when force was thus used. The impression 
 was general that the missiles of the enemy could 
 not reach the populated parts of New York. 
 
 The crowds, however, at the Grand Central 
 D6p6t, trying to leave the city, were enormous. 
 People were placed in cattle-cars, on wood cars in 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 12 1 
 
 fact, every sort of conveyance adapted to the tracks 
 was pressed into service. 
 
 The Thirtieth Street Depot, on the west side, 
 also was crowded, and trains were leaving thence 
 every few minutes. 
 
 Just before noon, the city was horror-stricken by 
 the news of a frightful accident at Spuyten Duyvil. 
 An overloaded train from the Thirtieth Street 
 Depot there, through a broken switch, came into 
 collision with another overloaded train from the 
 Grand Central Depot. The slaughter was hor- 
 rible. Twelve cars were derailed, and more than 
 a hundred and twenty people, mostly women and 
 children, killed. 
 
 While people were repeating this news to one 
 another with white faces and trembling lips, the 
 Spanish squadron was taking position and prepar- 
 ing to attack. 
 
 The English squadron moved outside the Spanish 
 ships, and stood off and on under easy steam. 
 
 At precisely noon the white flag was lowered 
 from the mast-head of the Spanish flag-ship and 
 the Spanish flags were hoisted by all of the vessels. 
 Immediately afterwards the " Numancia" delivered 
 her broadside full upon the Coney Island battery. 
 
 Instantly the flag from the general's station was 
 flung out, the signal-gun was discharged, and from 
 all the sea-coast batteries the firing began. 
 
122 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 IV. 
 
 IRON HAIL. 
 
 The position chosen by the attacking vessels 
 was about one and a half miles to the south of 
 Plumb Inlet. This point is distant from Fort 
 Hamilton six miles, from Sandy Hook light seven 
 miles, from Brooklyn Navy Yard nine and a half 
 miles, and from the City Hall, New York City, 
 about eleven miles, in a straight line. An ample 
 depth of water to float ships drawing twenty-four 
 feet here exists. The situation was sufficiently 
 distant from the shore batteries to render the effect 
 of their projectiles on the armor of the vessels quite 
 inconsiderable. 
 
 The ships, however, did not remain motionless, 
 but steamed slowly around in a circle of some two 
 miles in diameter, each vessel delivering her fire as 
 she reached the point above specified. In this 
 way, the chances of being struck by projectiles 
 from shore were not only lessened, but the injury 
 which they could do was decreased by the greater 
 distance which they would be compelled to 
 traverse to strike the ships during the progress of 
 the latter around the further side of the circle. 
 
 It was evident that the Spanish commander had 
 no idea of attempting to land his forces, but sim- 
 ply proposed to keep up a slow, persistent bom- 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 123 
 
 bardment. It was further apparent that only his 
 lighter artillery was directed upon the shore bat- 
 teries, and that he was practising with his heavy 
 metal at high elevations, to find out how much 
 range he could get. 
 
 When the second day of the bombardment 
 opened, there were about a hundred thousand peo- 
 ple still in New York, including two of the city 
 regiments doing police duty. A strong force for 
 this purpose was necessary, as a large number of 
 roughs and criminals, who had hurried away dur- 
 ing the first panic, now returned, and signalized 
 their advent by the attempted pillage of the Van- 
 derbilt residences. 
 
 About a hundred and fifty of this mob remained 
 on the pavement of Fifth Avenue, after a well- 
 directed mitrailleuse fire had been kept up for some 
 fifteen minutes by the troops. The rest took to 
 their heels, and lurked about the lower part of the 
 city, waiting for a better opportunity, and think- 
 ing hungrily of the contents of the magnificent 
 dwellings in the up-town districts. 
 
 The sea-coast batteries nearest to the attacking 
 ships were soon rendered untenable by their fire. 
 The large hotels on Coney Island were all struck 
 by shells and burned, and the villages of Flat- 
 lands, Gravesend, and New Utrecht were quickly 
 destroyed. 
 
 Shell after shell then fell in Flatbush, and occa- 
 sionally a terrific explosion in Prospect Park, in 
 Greenwood Cemetery, and in the outlying avenues 
 
124 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 of Brooklyn, showed that the enemy was throwing 
 his missiles over distances constantly augmenting. 
 
 On the morning of the third day a futile attempt 
 was made to blow up the " Numancia," first by 
 the Lay and then by the Ericsson submarine tor- 
 pedo-boats. The Lay boat, however, ran up on 
 the east bank and could not be got off, and the 
 Ericsson started finely from the shore, but, ap- 
 parently, sank before she had gone a mile. 
 
 The attack by the " Alarm" and her attendant 
 fleet of torpedo-tugs had the effect of stopping 
 the bombardment and of concentrating the 
 enemy's attention upon his own safety. The tugs 
 advanced gallantly to the onset, six of them rush- 
 ing almost simultaneously upon the " Vittoria." 
 That vessel met them with a broadside which sank 
 four at once, and the other two were riddled by 
 shell from Hotchkiss revolving cannon from the 
 decks of the Spaniard ; their machinery was crip- 
 pled, and they drifted helplessly out to sea. Of 
 the others, some ran aground on the bank, some 
 were sunk, and not one succeeded in exploding her 
 torpedo near a Spanish vessel. The " Alarm" 
 planted a shell from her bow-rifle, at close range, 
 squarely into the stern of the " Zaragoza, " pierc- 
 ing the armor and killing a dozen men, besides 
 disabling two guns. She was rammed, however, 
 by the " Arapiles," and so badly injured as to 
 compel her to make her escape into shoal water to 
 prevent sinking. There she grounded, and the 
 Spaniards leisurely made a target of her, although 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 125 
 
 they considerately permitted her crew to go ashore 
 in their boats without firing a shot at them. 
 
 Meanwhile the remaining citizens of New York 
 had held a mass meeting, and appointed a com- 
 mittee of Public Safety, with General Grant at its 
 head. There had been a great popular movement 
 to have that gentleman put in supreme command 
 of the army, but the authorities at Washington, for 
 some occult reason, known only to themselves, had 
 offered him a major-general's commission, which 
 he promptly declined. Then he deliberately went 
 to the nearest recruiting-station and tried to enlist 
 as a private ; but the recruiting-officer, after re- 
 covering his senses, with which he parted in 
 dumb astonishment for some seconds, refused him 
 on the ground that he was over forty-five years 
 of age. 
 
 The general contented himself with remarking : 
 " Guess they'll want me yet," and thereupon 
 lighting a huge cigar, calmly marched out of the 
 office and went over to Flatbush, to " see where 
 the shells are hitting ;" serenely oblivious of the 
 possibility of personal danger involved in that pro- 
 ceeding. 
 
 As chief of the Safety Committee, however, 
 Grant became the real ruler of New York. Mar- 
 tial law existed, and the senior colonel of the regi- 
 ments quartered in the city was in nominal charge; 
 but, as this individual was not blessed with 
 especial force of character, he never asserted his 
 authority, and, in fact, seemed rather pleased to 
 
126 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 gravitate to the position of Grant's immediate 
 subordinate. 
 
 On the evening of April i8th the watchers on 
 Sandy Hook saw a fifth vessel join the Spanish 
 fleet ; a long, low craft, having, apparently, two 
 turrets and very light spars. They also saw the 
 admiral's flag on the " Numancia" lowered, only to 
 be hoisted again on the foremast of the new-comer. 
 
 At daybreak on the following morning a shell 
 crashed through the roof of the Fifth Avenue 
 Hotel, descended to the cellar, burst there and 
 wrecked a quarter of the building. What new fury 
 had thus been let loose ? 
 
 It has already been stated that the great ironclad 
 " El Cid " had sailed from Vigo she had arrived. 
 
 She carried four guns. Two one-hundred-ton 
 Armstrongs, each having an effectual range of 12 
 miles, and two Krupp i5.7-inch guns, which throw 
 shot weighing nearly 2000 pounds over ten miles. 
 Krupp claims a range of 15 miles ; but this is 
 doubtful. She also was encased in 21 y z inches of 
 compound steel and iron armor, capable of resist- 
 ing the projectiles of any cannon known except, 
 perhaps, those of her own Armstrongs. 
 
 The most powerfully armed and most impreg- 
 nable ironclad in the world now lay before New 
 York. 
 
 It was an Armstrong shell which struck the Fifth 
 Avenue Hotel. It was a Krupp shell which shortly 
 after knocked down the steeple of Trinity Church 
 as if it were a turret of cards. 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 127 
 
 In view of this new attack General Grant was re- 
 quested to call a meeting of the Committee of 
 Safety, to consider the question of capitulation, as 
 it was evident that the continuation of such a bom- 
 bardment would speedily destroy property in value 
 far beyond the immense sum asked by the be- 
 siegers. 
 
 He notified the members to meet in the City 
 Hall. When he arrived, he found nobody but a 
 messenger-boy, who tremblingly emerged from the 
 cellar. 
 
 The General quietly removed his cigar and ask- 
 ed : 
 
 " Where's the Committee ?" 
 
 " They they is up ter In wood, sir." 
 
 The boy's teeth chattered so that he could 
 hardly speak. 
 
 " What the deuce are they doing there ?" 
 
 " Dunno, sir. They told me as to tell you, sir, 
 that they wuz a Committee of Safety, and that's 
 wot they wanted, sir." 
 
 "Wanted what?" 
 
 " S-s-afety, sir !" 
 
 " And they deputized you to tell me that, eh ?" 
 
 "Ye-yes, sir." 
 
 " And you looked for me down in the cellar ?" 
 
 " N-no, sir. I wanted safety, too, sir. Oh, 
 Lordy !" 
 
 This last interjection was elicited by seeing the 
 upper part of the Tribune tall tower suddenly fly 
 off, and land on the roof of the Sun building. 
 
128 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 A sort of a sphinx-like smile overspread the gen- 
 eral's features. 
 
 He looked around for the messenger-boy, but 
 that youth was making extraordinary speed up 
 Broadway. 
 
 The general leisurely proceeded up that thor- 
 oughfare occasionally stopping, as a shot went 
 crashing into some near building, to note the effect. 
 
 On arriving at Union Square, he met a cavalry 
 squad looking for him, and mounting the horse of 
 one of the men, he proceeded with this escort to 
 the upper end of the island, which was now dense- 
 ly packed with people. 
 
 The projectiles from the heavy guns of the great 
 iron-clad were now falling in the lower part of the 
 city with terrible effect. The Western Union 
 building was shattered from cellar to roof ; the 
 City Hall was on fire; so also was St. Paul's Church 
 and the Herald building. The last-mentioned con- 
 flagration was put out by the editors and composi- 
 tors of that journal the entire Herald staff being 
 then in the underground press-rooms, busily pre- 
 paring and working off extras giving the latest de- 
 tails of the bombardment. 
 
 The Morse Building was completely demolished 
 by two Krupp shells, and not an edifice in Wall 
 Street, except the sub-Treasury, had escaped total 
 ruin. 
 
 The result of the conference of the Safety Com- 
 mittee was the dispatching of a messenger to Sandy 
 Hook, informing General Hancock of the condi- 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 129 
 
 tion of affairs, and asking him to request an armis- 
 tice for parley. 
 
 The " Ideal," bearing a white flag, was at once 
 dispatched to the Spanish flag-ship, and shortly 
 after the firing ceased. 
 
 The Spanish admiral refused to alter the terms 
 already proposed, except that, in view of the injury 
 already inflicted on the city and the probable in- 
 creased difficulty of collecting the sum demanded, 
 he would agree to allow five days' time in which 
 to pay the latter, on board his flag-ship. 
 
 General Hancock declined to consider this pro- 
 posal. 
 
 " El Cid " now began a new manoeuvre. All the 
 steam-launches of the fleet, provided with long, 
 forked spars extending from their bows, formed in 
 front of her, and, thus preceded, she deliberately 
 steamed up to the Main channel. 
 
 The fort on the Hook at once opened upon her, 
 but the shot glanced like dry peas from her armor. 
 She, in return, shelled the fort, the masonry of 
 which literally crumbled before the enormous pro- 
 jectiles hurled against it. Meanwhile, the launches 
 had entered the channel and were picking up such 
 torpedoes as could be detected. Other launches, 
 having no crews on board, but being governed en- 
 tirely by electric wires, were sent into the channel 
 and caused to drop counter mines, which, on being 
 fired, caused the explosion of such torpedoes as re- 
 mained : thus making a broad and safe channel for 
 the ironclad to enter. 
 
130 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 Finally the remaining launches returned to the 
 " Cid" and evidently reported the channel clear, 
 for she boldly steamed into it, stopping only for an 
 instant, when off the end of the peninsula, to send 
 a double charge of grape and canister from her 
 huge guns into the ranks of the fugitives, who 
 were precipitately rushing from the fort. 
 
 It was then that General Hancock was killed, 
 although the fact has since often been disputed. 
 His body, wounded in a dozen places, was found 
 on the sand near the highest wall of the fort, from 
 the top of which, it is conjectured, he was swept 
 by the fearful hail of the Spanish ironclad. 
 
 " El Cid" continued on into the bay, occasion- 
 ally stopping as signaled by the launches preced- 
 ing her, when a torpedo was encountered, and 
 finally took up her position within about a mile of 
 Fort Hamilton, and hence about seven miles from 
 the Battery. 
 
 As the projectiles from the fort glanced harm- 
 lessly from her armor, she paid no attention to 
 that attack, but resumed her fire upon the city. 
 
 Shells now began to fall as far up-town as Forty- 
 second Street. 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 131 
 
 V. 
 
 AT THE MERCY OF THE FOE. 
 
 Meanwhile, the other four vessels had ceased 
 their bombardment of the batteries, as the latter no 
 longer answered them. 
 
 They appeared to have new work in hand. 
 
 During the following afternoon a fresh sea-breeze 
 set in. Then a large, swaying globe made its ap- 
 pearance on the deck of each of the vessels. Ex- 
 amination with the telescope showed to the signal 
 men, who had established a new station on the 
 Jersey highlands, that these mysterious spheres 
 were balloons ; and that the ships were about to 
 dispatch them, was evident from the fact that 
 small pilot-balloons were soon sent up. These last 
 were wafted directly toward the city. 
 
 What possible object could the Spanish war- ves- 
 sels have in this, was a question asked by every 
 one, as soon as the intelligence became known. 
 
 The balloon which rose from the " Numancia" 
 had a car attached, but there was clearly no one in 
 it. Therefore the balloons were not to be used for 
 purposes of observation. 
 
 The people in New York saw the balloons as they 
 successively rose from the four vessels^ and won- 
 deringly watched their progress. 
 
 They saw the first of them gently sail toward the 
 
132 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 city until about over the Roman Catholic Cathe- 
 dral on Fifth Avenue. Then a dark object seemed 
 to fall from the car, the lightened balloon shot up- 
 ward, the object struck the roof of the cathedral, 
 there was a fearful explosion, a trembling of the 
 earth as if an angry volcano were beneath, and the 
 crash of falling buildings followed. 
 
 Through the great clouds of dust and smoke it 
 could be seen that not only was the cathedral 
 shattered, but that the walls of every building 
 adjacent to the square on which it stood were 
 down. 
 
 The Spaniards were dropping nitro-glycerine bombs 
 into the city from the balloons. They knew how long 
 it would take the breeze to waft the air-ships over 
 the built-up portion, and it was an easy matter to 
 adjust clock-work in the car to cause the dropping 
 of the torpedo at about the proper time. 
 
 Accuracy was not needed. A shell, filled with 
 fifty or a hundred pounds of dynamite or nitro- 
 glycerine, would be sure to do terrible damage 
 anywhere within a radius of three miles around 
 Madison Square. 
 
 A second balloon dropped its charge into the 
 receiving reservoir in Central Park, luckily doing 
 no damage, but throwing up a tremendous jet of 
 water. The third and fourth balloons let fall their 
 dejectiles, the one among the tenements near 
 Tompkins Square destroying an entire block of 
 houses simultaneously ; the other on High Bridge, 
 completely shattering that structure, and so break- 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 133 
 
 ing the aqueduct through which the city obtains its 
 water supply. 
 
 The Spanish admiral now ceased firing volun- 
 tarily, and sent a message by flag-of-truce announc- 
 ing his intention to continue the throwing of bal- 
 loon torpedoes into the city until it capitulated, 
 and, in order to avoid further destruction of prop- 
 erty, he renewed the proposal already made. 
 
 General Grant, on receiving this message for 
 the citizens had literally forced him to take active 
 command of the troops simply remarked : 
 
 " Let him fire away !" 
 
 But the Safety Committee vehemently protested ; 
 and finally, after much discussion, induced Grant 
 to send back word that the terms were accepted. 
 
 The situation was, in truth, one of sadness of 
 bitter humiliation. The Empire City had fallen, 
 and lay at the mercy of a foreign foe. The im- 
 mense ransom demanded must be raised and paid, 
 or the work of destruction would be resumed until 
 the defenders of the bay removed their torpedoes 
 from the Narrows and permitted the Spanish forces 
 to enter and occupy the metropolis. 
 
134 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE FLAG WITH THE LONE STAR. 
 
 As it was manifestly impossible to obtain fifty 
 millions of dollars in specie and foreign notes 
 within New York for all the money in the vaults 
 of the banks and the treasury had long since been 
 sent to other cities the general government as- 
 sumed payment of the amount demanded by the 
 Spaniards, which, however, it was decided not to 
 make until just before the expiration of the last of 
 the five days of grace. 
 
 As will now be seen, this was a fortunate deci- 
 sion. The unremitting bombardment which had 
 been maintained by the four vessels off the Long 
 Island shore had so greatly reduced their supply 
 of ammunition that it became necessary to send 
 for more : and for this purpose the " Vittoria" was 
 dispatched to meet a transport which had been 
 ordered to sail from Cuba at about this time. 
 
 On the evening of the third day the weather as- 
 sumed a threatening appearance, and the " El Cid" 
 left her position near Fort Hamilton for a more se- 
 cure anchorage near Sandy Hook. The other 
 ships stood out to sea. 
 
 It stormed heavily during that night, and before 
 evening on the morrow one of the strongest gales 
 ever known in this vicinity had set in. 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 135 
 
 The situation in which the Spanish flag-ship now 
 found herself was critical. She had put down her 
 two bower anchors, but they were clearly insuffi- 
 cient to hold her. To veer out cable was danger- 
 ous, for it was not known how near the ship was 
 to sunken torpedoes ; to allow her to drag was to 
 run the double chance of striking a torpedo or 
 going ashore. 
 
 During the night she parted both cables, and the 
 morning found her firmly imbedded in the beach 
 off the Hook. Of the other vessels, the " Numan- 
 cia" only was in sight. 
 
 The signal men, however, could see black smoke 
 on the horizon ; and this they anxiously watched, 
 expecting momentarily to make out the " Arapiles" 
 and " Zaragoza." Shortly after daybreak, a thick 
 fog settled down, completely cutting off the sea- 
 ward view. 
 
 In the signal station were General Grant and 
 several members of the Safety Commission. The 
 ransom money was in readiness, and the intention 
 was to pay it over during the morning. 
 
 At about eight o'clock, heavy firing was heard 
 from the sea. 
 
 It was too far distant to be accounted for by a 
 supposed renewal of the bombardment by the Span- 
 ish ships, even under the assumption that they had 
 thus broken the truce. 
 
 The watchers at the signal station looked at each 
 other in astonishment, and eagerly waited for the 
 fog to lift. 
 
136 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 An hour later, the mist began to clear away. 
 The sight that met the eyes of the spectators was 
 one never to be forgotten. 
 
 The " Numancia" was evidently ashore on the 
 East bank. Her fore and mainmasts were gone, 
 and clouds of dark smoke were lazily ascending 
 from her forecastle. Suddenly, the whole ship 
 seemed to burst into a sheet of flame, there was a 
 deep explosion, the air was filled with flying frag- 
 ments, and a blackened hull was all that was left 
 of the proud man-of-war. 
 
 The " Arapiles," about two miles further out to 
 sea, was making a gallant defense against three 
 strange vessels. Two, lying at short range on her 
 quarters, were pouring in a fearful fire ; the third, 
 which had evidently been engaged with the 
 " Numancia," was rapidly bearing down upon her, 
 apparently intending to ram. 
 
 Who could the strangers be ? 
 
 The flags which floated from their mast-heads 
 bore a strong resemblance to our own, yet they 
 were not the stars and stripes ; for the stripes were 
 replaced by but two broad bands of red and white, 
 and in the blue field there was but a single star. 
 
 " Chili, by Jove J" ejaculated some one in the 
 signal station. 
 
 He was right. 
 
 The new-comers were the " Huascar," the "Almi- 
 rante Cochrane" and the " Blanco Encelada," the 
 three armored vessels of the South American Re- 
 public. 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 137 
 
 It was the " Huascar" which was now bearing 
 down upon the " Arapiles." 
 
 Suddenly, the Chilian monitor was seen to slack- 
 en her speed and change her course. 
 
 She no longer meant to ram ; the necessity had 
 ceased. At the same time, the other Chilian ves- 
 sels ceased firing. 
 
 The Spanish ensign on the " Arapiles" had been 
 lowered. In a few minutes after it rose again, but 
 this time surmounted by the Chilian flag. 
 
 Then the four vessels stood in toward the Hook. 
 
 The watchers on the signal station now waited 
 in breathless suspense. 
 
 The "Arapiles," with a prize crew from the 
 other vessels to work her guns, was to be made to 
 attack her former consort, the stranded " El Cid ;" 
 and that vessel, aware of her danger, was now 
 firing rapidly at her approaching enemies. 
 
 It was not reserved, however, for the Chilians to 
 complete their victory by the capture of the great 
 ironclad. 
 
 The giant was to be killed by a pigmy scarce 
 larger than one of his own huge weapons. A 
 smaller steam-launch slowly crept out from the 
 Staten Island shore. But two men could be seen 
 on board of her one in the bow, the other at the 
 helm. 
 
 " They don't see us yet, Ned," said the man in 
 the bow. 
 
 " No ; they have all they can do to take care of 
 the other fellows. Look out ! Are you hurt ?" 
 
138 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 A shell from the Chilians just then came over 
 the Hook, and, bursting under the water near the 
 launch, deluged the boat with spray. 
 
 " Not a bit," said the other. 
 
 " Is your boom clear ?" 
 
 "All clear." 
 
 Bang ! A shot, this time from the Spaniard, 
 came skipping along the water in the direction of 
 the launch, and flew over the heads of the daring 
 pair. 
 
 " Hang them ! They've seen us." 
 
 " Rig out your boom. We're in for it now !" 
 
 The man in the stern pushed shut the door of 
 the boiler furnace, and turned on full steam. 
 
 The little craft fairly leaped ahead. 
 
 The two men set their teeth. He of the stern 
 lashed the tiller amidships, and crept forward, 
 aiding the other to push out the long boom which 
 projected from the bow. 
 
 Ten seconds passed. Then the torpedo on the 
 end of the boom struck the " El Cid" under the 
 stern. There was a crash a vast upheaval of 
 water and fragments. 
 
 The great ironclad rolled over on her side and 
 lay half submerged. 
 
 Of the two men who had done this, one swam 
 ashore bearing the other, wounded to the death. 
 
 A mighty cheer arose from the Chilian fleet, re- 
 peated from the shore with redoubled volume. 
 
 " El Cid" lay sullen and silent ; two of her guns 
 were pointing under water, two up to the clouds. 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 139 
 
 The " Arapiles" fired the last shell at her own 
 admiral now a corpse, torn to pieces by the tor- 
 pedo. 
 
 Then some one scrambled along the deck of the 
 wrecked monster and lowered the Spanish flag. 
 
 "I think we'll keep that money," remarked 
 
 Grant, as he lit another cigar. 
 
 ****** 
 
 The Chilian fleet had relieved New York. Elated 
 by her victory over Peru, and thirsting for revenge 
 against Spain for the latter's merciless bombard- 
 ment of Valparaiso in 1866, the Chilians, as soon 
 as they had learned of the declaration of war against 
 the United States, tore up the treaty of truce and 
 armistice made with Spain in 1871, and announced 
 themselves an ally of this country. Realizing the 
 weakness of our navy, and the unprotected position 
 of our seaports, Chili instantly dispatched her 
 three ironclads to New York. They made the 
 voyage with remarkable celerity, stopping only for 
 coal and provisions, and reached the beleaguered 
 city just in the nick of time, as has already been 
 detailed. 
 
 It was fortunate that the " Zaragoza" had been 
 obliged to put so far out to sea that she could not 
 return in season to take part in the conflict, other- 
 wise the result might have been different. 
 
 As it was, when she came back a day later, and 
 discovered the position of affairs, she took to her 
 heels without delay. 
 
 It is not necessary here to speak of the greeting 
 
140 THE END OF NEW YORK. 
 
 which the Chilians received, or the thanks which 
 were lavished upon them by the people of the 
 United States. Neither need we picture the dis- 
 may of the citizens of New York when they came 
 to realize the fearful damage which had been in- 
 flicted upon their city. Fully one-half of the town 
 lay in ruins. The metropolis was the metropolis no 
 longer. The proudest city of the Great Republic 
 had been at the mercy of a conqueror, and, as if 
 this humiliation were not deep enough, she owed 
 her preservation from utter destruction to the guns 
 of an insignificant Republic of South America. 
 
 Six months after the relief of the city, a Chilian 
 sailor belonging to the " Huascar," which was ly- 
 ing off the Battery, stopped to watch a crowd of 
 workmen who were busily engaged in clearing 
 away the ruins of some tenement buildings near 
 Tompkins Square. 
 
 The face of one of the workmen had evidently 
 attracted the foreigner's attention, as he gazed at 
 him intently and curiously. 
 
 Suddenly there was a sharp detonation. The 
 crowd scattered in all directions. An unexploded 
 shell which had lodged in the building had been 
 struck by a pick in the hands of one of the labor- 
 ers, and had been fired. 
 
 The sailor helped carry out the dead. 
 
 Among the victims was the man at whom he had 
 been so intently looking a moment before. This 
 
THE END OF NEW YORK. 141 
 
 one he took in his arms and bore him apart from 
 the rest. 
 
 Nervously he tore open the dead man's shirt. 
 On the bared breast was a curiously shaped mole. 
 
 The sailor sank on his knees in prayer beside the 
 body for a moment. Then he turned, and ad- 
 dressing an officer who, with a file of soldiers, had 
 come upon the scene, and was directing the re- 
 moval of the dead, he asked in broken English, 
 pointing to the corpse : 
 
 " Will you give me this ?" 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 " He was my brother Leon Sangrado." 
 
 The war had found a victim in him who had 
 caused it. 
 
WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 
 
 BY GEORGE ARNOLD. 
 
 BRANT BEACH is a long promontory of rock 
 and sand, jutting out at an acute angle from 
 a barren portion of the coast. Its farthest ex- 
 tremity is marked by a pile of many-colored, wave- 
 washed boulders ; its junction with the mainland 
 is the site of the Brant House, a watering-place of 
 excellent repute. 
 
 The attractions of this spot are not numerous. 
 There is surf-bathing all along the outer side of the 
 beach, and good swimming on the inner. The 
 fishing is fair ; and in still weather yachting is 
 rather a favorite amusement. Further than this 
 there is little to be said, save that the hotel is con- 
 ducted upon liberal principles, and the society gen- 
 erally select. 
 
 But to the lover of nature and who has the 
 courage to avow himself aught else ? the sea-shore 
 
 *** Atlantic Monthly, June^ 1863. 
 
WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 143 
 
 can never be monotonous. The swirl and sweep 
 of ever-shifting waters, the flying mist of foam 
 breaking away into a gray and ghostly distance 
 down the beach, the eternal drone of ocean, min- 
 gling itself with one's talk by day and with the 
 light dance-music in the parlors by night all these 
 are active sources of a passive pleasure. And to lie 
 at length upon the tawny sand, watching, through 
 half-closed eyes, the heaving waves, that mount 
 against a dark blue sky wherein great silvery 
 masses of cloud float idly on, whiter than the sunlit 
 sails that fade and grow and fade along the horizon, 
 while some fair damsel sits close by, reading an- 
 cient ballads of a simple metre, or older legends of 
 love and romance tell me, my eater of the fash- 
 ionable lotos, is not this a diversion well worth 
 your having ? 
 
 There is an air of easy sociality among the guests 
 at the Brant House, a disposition on the part of 
 all to contribute to the general amusement, that 
 makes a summer sojourn on the beach far more 
 agreeable than in certain larger, more frequented 
 watering-places, where one is always in danger of 
 discovering that the gentlemanly person with 
 whom he has been fraternizing is a faro-dealer, or 
 that the lady who has half-fascinated him is 
 Anonyma herself. Still, some consider the Brant 
 rather slow, and many good folk were a trifle sur- 
 prised when Mr. Edwin Salsbury and Mr. Charles 
 Burnham arrived by the late stage from Wikhasset 
 Station, with trunks enough for two first-class 
 
144 WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 
 
 belles, and a most unexceptionable man-servant in 
 gray livery, in charge of two beautiful setter-dogs. 
 
 These gentlemen seemed to have imagined that 
 they were about visiting some backwoods wilder- 
 ness, some savage tract of country, " remote, un- 
 friended, melancholy, slow," for they brought 
 almost everything with them that men of elegant 
 leisure could require, as if the hotel were but four 
 walls and a roof, which they must furnish with 
 their own chattels. I am sure it took Thomas, the 
 man-servant, a whole day to unpack the awnings, 
 the bootjacks, the game-bags, the cigar-boxes, the 
 guns, the camp-stools, the liquor-cases, the bath- 
 ing-suits, and other paraphernalia that these pleas- 
 ure-seekers brought. It must be owned, however, 
 that their room, a large one in the Bachelors' 
 Quarter, facing the sea, wore a very comfortable, 
 sportsmanlike look when all was arranged. 
 
 Thus surrounded, the young men betook them- 
 selves to the deliberate pursuit of idle pleasures. 
 They arose at nine and went down the shore, in- 
 variably returning at ten with one unfortunate 
 snipe, which was preserved on ice, with much cere- 
 mony, till wanted. At this rate it took them a 
 week to shoot a breakfast ; but to see them sally 
 forth, splendid in velveteen and corduroy, with 
 top-boots and a complete harness of green cord and 
 patent-leather straps, you would have imagined 
 that all game-birds were about to become ex- 
 tinct in that region. Their dogs, even, recognized 
 this great-cry-little-wool condition of things, and 
 
WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 145 
 
 bounded off joyously at the start, but came home 
 crestfallen, with an air of canine humiliation that 
 would have aroused Mr. Mayhew's tenderest sym- 
 pathies. 
 
 After breakfasting, usually in their room, the 
 friends enjoyed a long and contemplative smoke 
 upon the wide piazza in front of their windows, 
 listlessly regarding the ever-varied marine view 
 that lay before them in flashing breadth and 
 beauty. Their next labor was to array themselves 
 in wonderful morning-costumes of very shaggy 
 English cloth, shiny flasks and field-glasses about 
 their shoulders, and loiter down the beach, to the 
 point and back, making much unnecessary effort 
 over the walk a brief mile which they spoke of, 
 with importance, as their " constitutional." This 
 killed time till bathing-hour, and then another 
 toilet for dinner. After dinner a siesta : in the 
 room, when the weather was fresh ; when other- 
 wise, in hammocks hung from the rafters of the 
 piazza.. When they had been domiciled a few 
 days, they found it expedient to send home for 
 what they were pleased to term their " crabs" and 
 "traps," and excited the envy of less fortunate 
 guests by driving up and down the beach at a rac- 
 ing gait to dissipate the languor of the after-dinner 
 sleep. 
 
 This was their regular routine for the day 
 varied, occasionally, when the tide served, by a 
 fishing trip down the narrow bay inside the point. 
 For such emergencies they provided themselves 
 
146 WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 
 
 with a sail-boat and skipper, hired for the whole 
 season, and arrayed themselves in a highly nautical 
 rig. The results were, large quantities of sardines 
 and pale sherry consumed by the young men, and 
 a reasonable number of sea-bass and blackfish 
 caught by the skipper. 
 
 There were no regular " hops" at the Brant 
 House, but dancing in a quiet way every evening, 
 to a flute, violin, and violoncello, played by some 
 of the waiters. For a time Burnham and Salsbury 
 did not mingle much in these festivities, but loi- 
 tered about the halls and piazzas, very elegantly 
 dressed and barbered (Thomas was an unrivalled 
 coiffeur), and apparently somewhat ennuye. 
 
 That two well-made, full-grown, intelligent, and 
 healthy young men should lead such a life as this 
 for an entire summer might surprise one of a more 
 active temperament. The aimlessness and vacancy | 
 of an existence devoted to no earthly purpose save I 
 one's own comfort must soon weary any man who 
 knows what is the meaning of real, earnest life ' 
 life with a battle to be fought and a victory to be 
 won. But these elegant young gentlemen compre- 
 hended nothing of all that : they had been born 
 with golden spoons in their mouths, and educated 
 only to swallow the delicately insipid lotos-honey 
 that flows inexhaustibly from such shining spoons. 
 Clothes, complexions, polish of manner, and the 
 avoidance of any sort of shock were the simple ob- 
 jects of their solicitude. 
 
 I do not know that 1 have any serious quarrel 
 
WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 147 
 
 with such fellows, after all. They have strong vir- 
 tues. They are always clean ; and your rough 
 diamond, though manly and courageous as Cceur 
 de Lion, is not apt to be scrupulously nice in his 
 habits. Affability is another virtue. The Salsbury 
 and Burnham kind of man bears malice toward no 
 one, and is disagreeable only when assailed by 
 some hammer-and-tongs utilitarian. All he asks is 
 to be permitted to idle away his pleasant life un- 
 molested. Lastly, he is extremely ornamental. 
 We all like to see pretty things ; and I am sure 
 that Charley Burnham, in his fresh white duck 
 suit, with his fine, thoroughbred face gentle as a 
 girl's shaded by a snowy Panama, his blonde 
 moustache carefully pointed, his golden hair clus- 
 tering in the most picturesque possible waves, his 
 little red neck-ribbon the only bit of color in his 
 dress tied in a studiously careless knot, and his 
 pure, untainted gloves of pearl gray or lavender, 
 was, if I may be allowed the expression, just as 
 pretty as a picture. And Ned Salsbury was not 
 less " a joy forever," according to the dictum of 
 the late Mr. Keats. He was darker than Burnham, 
 with very black hair, and a moustache worn in the 
 manner the French call triste, which became him, 
 and increased the air of pensive melancholy that 
 distinguished his dark eyes, thoughtful attitudes, 
 and slender figure. Not that he was in the least 
 degree pensive or melancholy, or that he had cause 
 to be ; quite the contrary ; but it was his style, 
 and he did it well. 
 
148 WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 
 
 These two butterflies sat, one afternoon, upon 
 the piazza, smoking very large cigars, lost, appar- 
 ently, in profoundest meditation. Burnham, with 
 his graceful head resting upon one delicate hand, 
 his clear blue eyes full of a pleasant light, and his 
 face warmed by a calm, unconscious smile, might 
 have been revolving some splendid scheme of uni- 
 versal philanthropy. The only utterance, how- 
 ever, forced from him by the sublime thoughts that 
 permeated his soul, was the emission of a white 
 rolling volume of fragrant smoke, accompanied by 
 two words : " Dooced hot !" 
 
 Salsbury did not reply. He sat, leaning back, 
 with his fingers interlaced behind his head, and 
 his shadowy eyes downcast, as in sad remembrance 
 of some long-lost love. So might a poet have 
 looked, while steeped in mournfully rapturous day- 
 dreams of remembered passion and severance. So 
 might Tennyson's hero have mused, while he sang : 
 
 " Oh, that 'twere possible, 
 
 After long grief and pain, 
 To find the arms of my true love 
 Round me once again !" 
 
 But the poetic lips opened not to such numbers. 
 Salsbury gazed long and earnestly, and finally 
 gave vent to his emotion, indicating, with the 
 amber tip of his cigar-tube, the setter that slept in 
 the sunshine at his feet. 
 
 " Shocking place, this, for dogs !" I regret to 
 say he pronounced it " dawgs" " Why, Carlo is 
 as fat as fat as as a " 
 
WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 149 
 
 His mind was unequal to a simile even, and he 
 terminated the sentence in a murmur. 
 
 More silence ; more smoke ; more profound 
 meditation. Directly Charley Burnham looked 
 around with some show of vitality. 
 ' There comes the stage," said he. 
 
 The driver's bugle rang merrily among the drifted 
 sand-hills that lay warm and glowing in the orange 
 light of the setting sun. The young men leaned 
 forward over the piazza-rail and scrutinized the 
 occupants of the vehicle as it appeared. 
 
 " Old gentleman and lady, aw, and two chil- 
 dren," said Ned Salsbury ; " I hoped there would 
 be some nice girls." 
 
 This, in a voice of ineffable tenderness and poetry, 
 but with that odd, tired little drawl, so epidemic 
 in some of our universities. 
 
 " Look there, by Jove !" cried Charley, with a 
 real interest at last ; " now that's what I call a reg- 
 ular thing 1" 
 
 The "regular thing" was a low, four-wheeled 
 pony-chaise of basket-work, drawn by two jolly 
 little fat ponies, black and shiny as vulcanite, 
 which jogged rapidly in, just far enough behind 
 the stage to avoid its dust. 
 
 This vehicle was driven by a young lady of de- 
 cided beauty, with a spice of Amazonian spirit. 
 She was rather slender and very straight, with a 
 jaunty little hat and feather perched coquettishly 
 above her dark brown hair, which was arranged in 
 one heavy mass and confined in a silken net. Her 
 
150 WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 
 
 complexion was clear, without brilliancy ; her eyes 
 blue as the ocean horizon, and spanned by sharp, 
 characteristic brows ; her mouth small and deci- 
 sive ; and her whole cast of features indicative of 
 quick talent and independence. 
 
 Upon the seat beside her sat another damsel, 
 leaning indolently back in the corner of the car- 
 riage. This one was a little fairer than the first, 
 having on of those beautiful English complexions 
 of mingled rose and snow, and a dash of gold-dust 
 in her hair where the sun touched it. Her eyes, 
 however, were dark hazel and full of fire, shaded 
 and intensified by their long, sweeping lashes. 
 Her mouth was a rosebud, and her chin and 
 throat faultless in the delicious curve of their lines. 
 In a word, she was somewhat of the Venus-di-Milo 
 type ; her companion was more of a Diana. Both 
 were neatly habited in plain travelling-dresses and 
 cloaks of black and white plaid, and both seemed 
 utterly unconscious of the battery of eyes and eye- 
 glasses that enfiladed them from the whole length 
 of the piazza, as they passed. 
 
 "Who are they?" asked Salsbury ; "I don't 
 know them." 
 
 " Nor I," said Burnham ; " but they look like 
 people to know. They must be somebody." 
 
 Half an hour later the hotel-office was besieged 
 by a score of young men, all anxious for a peep at 
 the last names upon the register. It is needless to 
 say that our friends were not in the crowd. Ned 
 Salsbury was no more the man to exhibit curiosity 
 
WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 151 
 
 than Charley Burnham was the man to join in a 
 scramble for anything under the sun. They had 
 educated their emotions clear down, out of sight, 
 and piled upon them a mountain of well-bred in- 
 ertia. 
 
 But, somehow or other, these fellows who take 
 no trouble are always the first to gain the end. A 
 special Providence seems to aid the poor, helpless 
 creatures. So, while the crowd still pressed at the 
 office-desk, Jerry Swayne, the head clerk, happened 
 to pass directly by the piazza where the inert ones 
 sat, and, raising a comical eye, saluted them. 
 
 " Heavy arrivals to-night. See the turnout ?" 
 
 " Y-e-s," murmured Ned. 
 
 " Old Chapman and family. His daughter drove 
 the pony-phaeton, with her friend, a Miss Thurs- 
 ton. Regular nobby ones. Chapman's the steam- 
 ship man, you know. Worth thousands of mill- 
 ions ! I'd like to be connected with his family by 
 marriage, say !" and Jerry went off, rubbing his 
 cropped head and smiling all over, as was his wont. 
 
 " I know who they are now," said Charley. 
 " Met a cousin of theirs, Joe Faulkner, abroad two 
 years ago. Dooc^d fine fellow. Army." 
 
 The manly art of wagoning is not pursued vigor- 
 ously at Brant Beach. The roads are too heavy 
 back from the water, and the drive is confined to a 
 narrow strip of wet sand along the shore ; so car- 
 riages are few, and the pony-chaise became a dis- 
 tinguished element at once. Salsbury and Burn- 
 ham whirled past it in their light trotting-wagons 
 
152 WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 
 
 at a furious pace, and looked hard at the two 
 young ladies in passing, but without eliciting even 
 the smallest glance from them in return. 
 
 " Confounded dtsttngue-lookmg girls, and all 
 that," owned Ned, " but, aw, fearfully unconscious 
 of a fellow !" 
 
 This condition of matters continued until the 
 young men were actually driven to acknowledge 
 to each other that they should not mind knowing 
 the occupants of the pony carriage. It was a great 
 concession, and was rewarded duly. A bright, 
 handsome boy of seventeen, Miss Thurston's 
 brother, came to pass a few days at the seaside, 
 and fraternized with everybody, but was especially 
 delighted with Ned Salsbury, who took him out 
 sailing and shooting, and, I am afraid, gave him 
 cigars stealthily, when out of range of Miss Thurs- 
 ton's fine eyes. The result was that the first time 
 the lad walked on the beach with the two girls and 
 met the young man, introductions of an enthusi- 
 astic nature were instantly sprung upon them. An 
 attempt at conversation followed. 
 
 " How do you like Brant Beach ?" asked Ned. 
 
 " Oh, it is a very pretty place," said Miss Chap- 
 man, " but not lively enough." 
 
 " Well, Burnham and I find it pleasant ; aw, we 
 have lots of fun." 
 
 " Indeed ! Why, what do you do ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. Everything." 
 
 " Is the shooting good ? I saw you with your 
 guns yesterday." 
 
WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 153 
 
 " Well, there isn't a great deal of game. There 
 is some fishing, but we haven't caught much." 
 
 " How do you kill time, then ?" 
 
 Salsbury looked puzzled. 
 
 " Aw it is a first-rate air, you know. The table 
 is good, and you can sleep like a top. And then, 
 you see, I like to smoke around, and do nothing, 
 on the sea-shore. It is real jolly to lie on the 
 sand, aw, with all sorts of little bugs running over 
 you, and listen to the water swashing about !" 
 
 " Let's try it !" cried vivacious Miss Chapman ; 
 and down she sat on the sand. The others fol- 
 lowed her example, and in five minutes they were 
 picking up pretty pebbles and chatting away as 
 sociably as could be. The rumbling of the warn- 
 ing gong surprised them. 
 
 At dinner Burnham and Salsbury took seats op- 
 posite the ladies, and were honored with an intro- 
 duction to papa and mamma, a very dignified, 
 heavy, rosy, old-school couple, who ate a good 
 deal and said very little. That evening, when 
 flute and viol wooed the lotos-eaters to agitate the 
 light fantastic toe, these young gentlemen found 
 themselves in dancing humor, and revolved them- 
 selves into a grievous condition of glow and wilt in 
 various mystic and intoxicating measures with 
 their new-made friends. 
 
 On retiring, somewhat after midnight, Miss 
 Thurston paused while " doing her hair," and ad- 
 dressed Miss Chapman. 
 
 " Did you observe, Hattie, how very handsome 
 
154 WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 
 
 those gentlemen are ? Mr. Burnham looks like a 
 prince of the sang azur, and Mr. Salsbury like his 
 poet-laureate." 
 
 " Yes, dear," responded Hattie ; " I have been 
 considering those flowers of the field and lilies of 
 the valley." 
 
 " Ned," said Charlie, at about the same time, 
 " we won't find anything nicer here this season, I 
 think." 
 
 " They're pretty worth while," replied Ned, 
 " and I'm rather pleased with them." 
 
 " Which do you like best ?" 
 
 " Oh, bother ! I haven't thought of that yet." 
 
 The next day the young men delayed their 
 "constitutional" until the ladies were ready to 
 walk, and the four strolled off together, mamma 
 and the children following in the pony-chaise. At 
 the rocks on the end of the point Ned got his feet 
 very wet fishing up specimens of seaweed for the 
 damsels ; and Charley exerted himself super- 
 humanly in assisting them to a ledge which they 
 considered favorable for sketching purposes. 
 
 In the afternoon a sail was arranged, and they 
 took dinner on board the boat, with any amount of 
 hilarity and a good deal of discomfort. In the 
 evening more dancing and vigorous attentions to 
 both the young ladies, but without a shadow of 
 partiality being shown by either of the four. 
 
 This was very nearly the history of many days. 
 It does not take long to get acquainted with people 
 who are willing, especially at watering-places ; and 
 
WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 155 
 
 in the course of a few weeks these young folks 
 were, to all intents and purposes, old friends call- 
 ing each other by their given names, and conduct- 
 ing themselves with an easy familiarity quite 
 charming to behold. Their amusements were 
 mostly in common now. The light wagons were 
 made to hold two each instead of one, and the 
 matinal snipe escaped death, and was happy over 
 his early worm. 
 
 One day, however, Laura Thurston had a head- 
 ache, and Hattie Chapman stayed at home to take 
 care of her ; so Burnham and Salsbury had to 
 amuse themselves alone. They took their boat and 
 idled about the waters inside the point, dozing 
 under an awning, smoking, gaping, and wishing 
 that headaches were out of fashion, while the taci- 
 turn and tarry skipper instructed the dignified and 
 urbane Thomas in the science of trolling for blue- 
 fish. 
 
 At length Ned tossed his cigar-end overboard 
 and braced himself for an effort. 
 
 " I say, Charlie," said he, " this sort of thing 
 can't go on forever, you know. I've been think- 
 ing lately." 
 
 " Phenomenon !" replied Charlie; "and what 
 have you been thinking about ?" 
 
 " Those girls. We've got to choose." 
 
 " Why ? Isn't it well enough as it is ?" 
 
 " Yes so far. But I think, aw^ that we don't 
 quite do them justice. They're grands partis, you 
 see. I hate to see clever girls wasting themselves 
 
156 WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 
 
 on society, waiting and waiting, and we fellows 
 swimming about just like fish around a hook that 
 isn't baited properly." 
 
 Charley raised himself upon his elbow. 
 
 " You don't mean to tell me, Ned, that you have 
 matrimonial intentions ?" 
 
 "Oh, no! Still, why not? We've all got to 
 come to it some day, I suppose. " 
 
 "Not yet, though. It is a sacrifice we can 
 escape for some years yet. " 
 
 " Yes of course some years ; but we may be- 
 gin to look about us a bit. I'm, aw, I'm six and 
 twenty, you know." 
 
 " And I'm very near that. I suppose a fellow 
 can't put off the yoke too long. After thirty 
 chances aren't so good. I don't know, by Jove ! 
 but what we ought to begin thinking of it. " 
 
 41 But it is a sacrifice. Society must lose a fel- 
 low, though, onetime or another. And I don't be- 
 lieve we will ever do better than we can now." 
 
 " Hardly, I suspect." 
 
 " And we're keeping other fellows away, maybe. 
 It is a shame !" 
 
 Thomas ran his line in rapidly, with nothing on 
 the hook. 
 
 " Cap'n Hull," he said, gravely, " I had the big- 
 gest kind of a fish then I'm sure ; but d'rectly I 
 went to pull him in, sir, he took and let go. " 
 
 " Yaas," muttered the taciturn skipper, " the 
 biggest fish allers falls back inter the warter." 
 
 " I've been thinking a little about this matter, 
 
WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 157 
 
 too," said Charlie, after a pause, "and I had 
 about concluded we ought to pair off. But I'll be 
 confounded if I know which is the best ! They're 
 both nice girls." 
 
 " There isn't much choice," Ned replied. " If 
 they were as different, now, as you and me, I'd 
 take the blonde, of course, aw, and you'd take the 
 brunette. But Hattie Chapman's eyes are blue, 
 and her hair isn't black, you know, so you can't 
 call her dark, exactly." 
 
 " No more than Laura is exactly light. Her 
 hair is brown more than golden, and her eyes are 
 hazel. Hasn't she a lovely complexion, though? 
 By Jove !" 
 
 " Better than Hattie' s. Yet I don't know but 
 Hattie's features are a little the best." 
 
 " They are. Now, honest, Ned, which do you 
 prefer ? Say either ; I'll take the one you don't 
 want. I haven't any choice." 
 
 "Neither have I." 
 
 "How shall we settle?" 
 
 " Aw, throw for it ?" 
 
 "Yes. Isn't there a backgammon board for- 
 ward, in that locker, Thomas ?" 
 
 The board was found and the dice produced. 
 
 " The highest takes which ?" 
 
 " Say Laura Thurston." 
 
 " Very good ; throw." 
 
 " You first." 
 
 " No. Go on." 
 
 Charlie threw with about the same amount of 
 
158 WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 
 
 excitement he might have exhibited in a turkey 
 raffle. 
 
 "Five-three," said he ; " now for your luck." 
 
 " Six-four ! Laura's mine. Satisfied ?" 
 
 " Perfectly if you are. If not, I don't mind 
 exchanging." 
 
 " Oh, no. I'm satisfied." 
 
 Both reclined upon the deck once more with a 
 sigh of relief, and a long silence followed. 
 
 " I say," began Charlie, after a time, "it is a 
 comfort to have these little matters arranged with- 
 out any trouble, eh ?" 
 
 "Y-e-s." 
 
 " Do you know, I think I'll marry mine ?" 
 
 " I will, if you will." 
 
 " Done ! It is a bargain." 
 
 This "little matter" being arranged, a change 
 gradually took place in the relations of the four. 
 Ned Salsbury began to invite Laura Thurston out 
 driving and bathing somewhat oftener than be- 
 fore, and Hattie Chapman somewhat less often ; 
 while Charlie Burnham followed suit with the last- 
 named young lady. As the line of demarcation 
 became fixed, the damsels recognized it, and ac- 
 cepted with gracious readiness the cavaliers that 
 Fate, through the agency of a chance-falling pair 
 of dice, had allotted to them. 
 
 The other guests of the house remarked the new 
 position of affairs, and passed whispers about it to 
 the effect that the girls had at last succeeded in 
 getting their fish on hooks instead of in a net. No 
 
WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 159 
 
 suitors could have been more devoted than our 
 friends. It seemed as if each knight bestowed 
 upon the chosen one all the attentions he had 
 hitherto given to both ; and whether they went 
 boating, sketching, or strolling upon the sands, 
 they were the very picture of a partie carree of 
 lovers. 
 
 Naturally enough, as the young men became more 
 in earnest, with the reticence common to my sex 
 they spoke less frequently and freely on the sub- 
 ject. Once, however, after an unusually pleasant 
 afternoon, Salsbury ventured a few words. 
 
 " I say, we're a couple of lucky dogs ! Who'd 
 have thought now, aw, that our summer was going 
 to turn out so well ? I'm sure I didn't. How do 
 you get along, Charley, boy ?" 
 
 " Deliciously. Smooth sailing enough. Wasn't 
 it a good idea, though, to pair off? I'm just as 
 happy as a bee in clover. You seem to prosper, 
 too, heh?" 
 
 " Couldn't ask anything different. Nothing 
 but devotion, and all that. I'm delighted. I say, 
 when are you going to pop ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. It is only a matter of 
 form. Sooner the better, I suppose, and have it 
 over." 
 
 " I was thinking of next week. What do you 
 say to a quiet picnic down on the rocks, and a 
 walk afterwards ? We can separate, you know, 
 and do the thing up systematically." 
 
 " All right. I will, if you will." 
 
160 WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 
 
 " That's another bargain. I notice there isn't 
 much doubt about the results." 
 
 44 Hardly !" 
 
 A close observer might have seen that the gen- 
 tlemen increased their attentions a little from time 
 to time. The objects of their devotion perceived 
 it, and smiled more and more graciously upon 
 them. 
 
 The day set for the picnic arrived duly, and was 
 radiant. It pains me to confess that my heroes 
 were a trifle nervous. Their apparel was more 
 gorgeous and wonderful than ever, and Thomas, 
 who was anxious to be off courting Miss Chap- 
 man's lady's-maid, found his masters dreadfully 
 exacting in the matter of hair-dressing. At length, 
 however, the toilet was over, and " Solomon in all 
 his glory" would have been vastly astonished at 
 finding himself " arrayed as one of these." 
 
 The boat lay at the pier, receiving large quan- 
 tities of supplies for the trip, stowed by Thomas, 
 under the supervision of the grim and tarry skip- 
 per. When all was ready the young men gingerly 
 escorted their fair companions aboard, the lines 
 were cast off, and the boat glided gently down the 
 bay, leaving Thomas free to fly to the smart pres- 
 ence of Susan Jane and to draw glowing pictures 
 for her of a neat little porter-house in the city, 
 wherein they should hold supreme sway, be happy 
 with each other, and let rooms up-stairs for single 
 gentlemen. 
 
 The brisk land breeze swelling the sail, the flut- 
 
WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 161 
 
 taring of the gay little flag at the gaff, the musical 
 rippling of water under the counter, and the 
 spirited motion of the boat combined, with the 
 bland air and pleasant sunshine, to inspire the 
 party with much vivacity. They had not been 
 many minutes afloat before the guitar-case was 
 opened, and the girls' voices Laura's soprano and 
 Hattie's contralto rang melodiously over the 
 waves, mingled with feeble attempt at bass accom- 
 paniment from their gorgeous guardians. 
 
 Before these vocal exercises wearied, the skipper 
 hauled down his jib, let go his anchor, and brought 
 the craft to just off the rocks ; and bringing the 
 yawl alongside, unceremoniously plucked the girls 
 down into it, without giving their cavaliers a chance 
 for the least display of agile courtliness. Rowing 
 ashore, this same tarry person left them huddled 
 upon the beach, with their hopes, their hampers, 
 their emotions, and their baskets, and returned to 
 the vessel to do a little private fishing on his own 
 account till wanted. 
 
 The maidens gave vent to their high spirits by 
 chasing each other among the rocks, gathering 
 shells and seaweed for the construction of those 
 ephemeral little ornaments fair, but frail in 
 which the sex delights, singing, laughing, quoting 
 poetry, attitudinizing upon the peaks and ledges 
 of the fine old boulders mossy and weedy and 
 green with the wash of a thousand storms, worn 
 into strange shapes, and stained with the multitu- 
 dinous dyes of mineral oxidization and, in brief, 
 
162 WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 
 
 behaved themselves with all the charming abandon 
 that so well becomes young girls set free, by the 
 entourage of a holiday ramble, from the buckram 
 and clear-starch of social etiquette. 
 
 Meanwhile Ned and Charley smoked the pensive 
 cigar of preparation in a sheltered corner, and 
 gazed out seaward, dreaming and seeing nothing. 
 
 Erelong the breeze and the romp gave the 
 young ladies not only a splendid color and spark- 
 ling eyes, but excellent appetites also. The baskets 
 and hampers were speedily unpacked, the table- 
 cloth laid on a broad, flat stone, so used by gen- 
 erations of Brant House picnickers, and the party 
 fell to. Laura's beautiful hair, a little disordered, 
 swept her blooming cheek, and cast a pearly shadow 
 upon her neck. Her bright eyes glanced archly 
 out from under her half-raised veil, and there was 
 something inexpressibly naive in the freedom with 
 which she ate, taking a bird's wing in her fingers, 
 and boldly attacking it with teeth as white and even 
 as can be imagined. Notwithstanding all the 
 mawkish nonsense that has been put forth by senti- 
 mentalists concerning feminine eating, I hold 
 that it is one of the nicest things in the world to 
 see a pretty woman enjoying the creature com- 
 forts ; and Byron himself, had he been one of this 
 picnic party, would have been unable to resist the 
 admiration that filled the souls of Burnham and 
 Salsbury. Hattie Chapman stormed the fortress 
 of boned turkey with a gusto equal to that of 
 Laura, and made highly successful raids upon cer- 
 
WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 163 
 
 tain outlying salads and jellies. The young men 
 were not in a very ravenous condition ; they were, 
 as I have said, a little nervous, and bent their 
 energies principally to admiring the ladies and 
 coquetting with pickled oysters. 
 
 When the repast was over, with much accom- 
 panying chat and laughter, Ned glanced signifi- 
 cantly at Charley, and proposed to Laura that 
 they should walk up the beach to a place where, 
 he said, there were " some pretty rocks and 
 things, you know." She consented, and they 
 marched off. Hattie also arose, and took her para- 
 sol, as if to follow, but Charley remained seated, 
 tracing mysterious diagrams upon the table-cloth 
 with his fork, and looked sublimely unconscious. 
 
 " Sha'n't we walk, too ?" Hattie asked. 
 
 " Oh, why, the fact is," said he, hesitatingly, " I 
 I sprained my ankle getting out of that con- 
 founded boat, so I don't feel much like exercising 
 just now." 
 
 The young girl's face expressed concern. 
 
 " That is too bad ! Why didn't you tell us of it 
 before ? Is it painful ? I'm so sorry !" 
 
 " N-no it doesn't hurt much. I dare say it will 
 be all right in a minute. And then I'd just as 
 soon stay here with you as to walk anywhere." 
 
 This very tenderly, with a little sigh. 
 
 Hattie sat down again, and began to talk to this 
 factitious cripple in the pleasant, purring way some 
 damsels have, about the joys of the sea-shore, the 
 happy summer that was, alas ! drawing to a close, 
 
164 WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 
 
 her own enjoyment of life, and kindred topics, till 
 Charley saw an excellent opportunity to interrupt 
 with some aspirations of his own, which, he 
 averred, must be realized before his life would be 
 considered a satisfactory success. 
 
 If you had ever been placed in analogous circum- 
 stances, you know, of course, just about the sort of 
 thing that was being said by the two gentlemen at 
 nearly the same moment : Ned, loitering slowly 
 along the sands with Laura on his arm, and 
 Charley, stretched in indolent picturesqueness 
 upon the rocks, with Hattie sitting beside him. If 
 you do not know from experience, ask any candid 
 friend who has been through the form and cere- 
 mony of an orthodox proposal. 
 
 When the pedestrians returned the two couples 
 looked very hard at each other. All were smiling 
 and complacent, but devoid of any strange or un- 
 usual expression. Indeed, the countenance is sub- 
 ject to such severe education, in good society, that 
 one almost always looks smiling and complacent. 
 Demonstration is not fashionable, and a man must 
 preserve the same demeanor over the loss of a wife 
 or a glove-button, over the gift of a heart's whole 
 devotion or a bundle of cigars. Under all these 
 visitations the complacent smile is in favor as the 
 neatest, most serviceable, and convenient form of 
 non-committalism. 
 
 The sun was approaching the blue range of misty 
 hills that bounded the mainland swamps by this 
 time ; so the skipper was signalled, the dinner 
 
WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 165 
 
 paraphernalia gathered up, and the party were 
 soon en route for home once more. When the 
 young ladies were safely in, Ned and Charley met 
 in their room, and each caught the other looking 
 at him stealthily. Both smiled. 
 
 "Did I give you time, Charley?" asked Ned; 
 '* we came back rather soon." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; plenty of time." 
 
 " Did you aw, did you pop ?" 
 
 " Y-yes. Did you ?" 
 
 " Well yes." 
 
 " And you were " 
 
 " Rejected, by Jove !" 
 
 " So was I !" 
 
 The day following this disastrous picnic the bag- 
 gage of Mr. Edwin Salsbury and Mr. Charles Burn- 
 ham was sent to the depot at Wikhasset Station, 
 and they presented themselves at the hotel-office 
 with a request for their bill. As Jerry Swayne de- 
 posited their key upon its hook, he drew forth a 
 small tri-cornered billet from the pigeon-hole be- 
 neath, and presented it. 
 
 " Left for you this morning, gentlemen." 
 
 It was directed to both, and Charley read it over 
 Ned's shoulder. It ran thus : 
 
 " DEAR BOYS : The next time you divert your- 
 selves by throwing dice for two young ladies, we 
 pray you not to do so in the presence of a valet 
 who is upon terms of intimacy with the maid of 
 one of them. 
 
1 66 WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. 
 
 " With many sincere thanks for the amusement 
 you have given us often when you least suspected 
 it we bid you a lasting adieu, and remain, with 
 the best wishes, 
 
 " HATTIE CHAPMAN, 
 " LAURA THURSTON. 
 "Brant House, 
 
 "Wednesday." 
 
 " It is all the fault of that, aw that confounded 
 Thomas !" said Ned. 
 
 So Thomas was discharged. 
 
THE TACHYPOMP. 
 
 A MATHEMATICAL DEMONSTRATION. 
 
 BY E. P. MITCHELL. 
 
 THERE was nothing mysterious about Profes- 
 sor Surd's dislike for me. I was the only 
 poor mathematician in an exceptionally mathe- 
 matical class. The old gentleman sought the lect- 
 ure-room every morning with eagerness, and left it 
 reluctantly. For was it not a thing of joy to find 
 seventy young men who, individually and collect- 
 ively, preferred x to XX ; who had rather differen- 
 tiate than dissipate ; and for whom the limbs of 
 the heavenly bodies had more attractions than 
 those of earthly stars upon the spectacular stage ? 
 So affairs went on swimmingly between the Pro- 
 fessor of Mathematics and the Junior Class at 
 Polyp University. In every man of the seventy 
 the sage saw the logarithm of a possible La Place, 
 
 *** Scribbler's Monthly, March, 1874. 
 
1 68 THE TACffYPOMP. 
 
 of a Sturm, or of a Newton. It was a delightful 
 task for him to lead them through the pleasant 
 valleys of conic sections, and beside the still waters 
 of the integral calculus. Figuratively speaking, 
 his problem was not a hard one. He had only to 
 manipulate, and eliminate, and to raise to a higher 
 power, and the triumphant result of examination 
 day was assured. 
 
 But I was a disturbing element, a perplexing un- 
 known quantity, which had somehow crept into 
 the work, and which seriously threatened to impair 
 the accuracy of his calculations. It was a touching 
 sight to behold the venerable mathematician as he 
 pleaded with me not so utterly to disregard prece- 
 dent in the use of cotangents ; or as he urged, with 
 eyes almost tearful, that ordinates were dangerous 
 things to trifle with. All in vain. More theorems 
 went on to my cuff than into my head. Never did 
 chalk do so much work to so little purpose. And, 
 therefore, it came that Furnace Second was re- 
 duced to zero in Professor Surd's estimation. He 
 looked upon me with all the horror which an un- 
 algebraic nature could inspire. I have seen the 
 Professor walk around an entire square rather 
 than meet the man who had no mathematics in 
 his soul. 
 
 For Furnace Second were no invitations to Pro- 
 fessor Surd's house. Seventy of the class supped 
 in delegations around the periphery of the Profes- 
 sor's tea-table. The seventy-first knew nothing of 
 the charms of that perfect ellipse, with its twin 
 
THE TACHYPOMP. 169 
 
 bunches of fuchsias and geraniums in gorgeous 
 precision at the two foci. 
 
 This, unfortunately enough, was no trifling de- 
 privation. Not that I longed especially for seg- 
 ments of Mrs. Surd's justly celebrated lemon pies ; 
 not that the spheroidal damsons of her excellent 
 preserving had any marked allurements ; not even 
 that I yearned to hear the Professor's jocose table- 
 talk about binomials, and chatty illustrations of 
 abstruse paradoxes. The explanation is far differ- 
 ent. Professor Surd had a daughter. Twenty 
 years before, he made a proposition of marriage to 
 the present Mrs. S. He added a little Corollary 
 to his proposition not long after. The Corollary 
 was a girl. 
 
 Abscissa Surd was as perfectly symmetrical as 
 Giotto's circle, and as pure, withal, as the mathe- 
 matics her father taught. It was just when spring 
 was coming to extract the roots of frozen-up vege- 
 tation that I fell in love with the Corollary. That 
 she herself was not indifferent I soon had reason to 
 regard as a self-evident truth. 
 
 The sagacious reader will already recognize 
 nearly all the elements necessary to a well-ordered 
 plot. We have introduced a heroine, inferred a 
 hero, and constructed a hostile parent after the 
 most approved model. A movement for the story, 
 a Deus ex machina, is alone lacking. With consid- 
 erable satisfaction I can promise a perfect novelty 
 in this line, a Deus ex machina never before offered 
 to the public. 
 
1 70 THE TACHYPOMP. 
 
 It would be discounting ordinary intelligence to 
 say that I sought with unwearying assiduity to fig- 
 ure my way into the stern father's good-will ; that 
 never did dullard apply himself to mathematics 
 more patiently than I ; that never did faithfulness 
 achieve such meagre reward. Then I engaged a 
 private tutor. His instructions met with no better 
 success. 
 
 My tutor's name was Jean Marie Rivarol. He 
 was a unique Alsatian though Gallic in name, 
 thoroughly Teuton in nature ; by birth a French- 
 man, by education a German. His age was thirty ; 
 his profession, omniscience ; the wolf at his door, 
 poverty ; the skeleton in his closet, a consuming 
 but unrequited passion. The most recondite prin- 
 ciples of practical science were his toys ; the deep- 
 est intricacies of abstract science his diversions. 
 Problems which were foreordained mysteries to 
 me were to him as clear as Tahoe water. Perhaps 
 this very fact will explain our lack of success in the 
 relation of tutor and pupil ; perhaps the failure is 
 alone due to my own unmitigated stupidity. Riv- 
 arol had hung about the skirts of the University for 
 several years ; supplying his few wants by writing 
 for scientific journals, or by giving assistance to 
 students who, like myself, were characterized by a 
 plethora of purse and a paucity of ideas ; cooking, 
 studying and sleeping in his attic lodgings ; and 
 prosecuting queer experiments all by himself. 
 
 We were not long discovering that even this ec- 
 centric genius could not transplant brains into my 
 
THE TACHYPOMP. 171 
 
 deficient skull. I gave over the struggle in de- 
 spair. An unhappy year dragged its slow length 
 around. A gloomy year it was, brightened only by 
 occasional interviews with Abscissa, the Abbie of 
 my thoughts and dreams. 
 
 Commencement day was coming on apace. I 
 was soon to go forth, with the rest of my class, to 
 astonish and delight a waiting world. The Pro- 
 fessor seemed to avoid me more than ever. Noth- 
 ing but the conventionalities, I think kept him 
 from shaping his treatment of me on the basis of 
 unconcealed disgust. 
 
 At last, in the very recklessness of despair, I re- 
 solved to see him, plead with him, threaten him if 
 need be, and risk all my fortunes on one desperate 
 chance. I wrote him a somewhat defiant letter, 
 stating my aspirations, and, as I flattered myself, 
 shrewdly giving him a week to get over the first 
 shock of horrified surprise. Then I was to call and 
 learn my fate. 
 
 During the week of suspense I nearly worried 
 myself into a fever. It was first crazy hope, and 
 then saner despair. On Friday evening, when I 
 presented myself at the Professor's door, I was 
 such a haggard, sleepy, dragged-out spectre, that 
 even Miss Jocasta, the harsh-favored maiden sister 
 of the Surd's, admitted me with commiserate re- 
 gard, and suggested pennyroyal tea. 
 
 Professor Surd was at a faculty meeting. Would 
 I wait ? 
 
 Yes, till all was blue, if need be. Miss Abbie ? 
 
172 THE TACHYPOMP. 
 
 Abscissa had gone to Wheelborough to visit a 
 school-friend. The aged maiden hoped I would 
 make myself comfortable, and departed to the un- 
 known haunts which knew Jocasta's daily walk. 
 
 Comfortable ! But I settled myself in a great 
 uneasy chair and waited, with the contradictory 
 spirit common to such junctures, dreading every 
 step lest it should herald the man whom, of all 
 men, I wished to see. 
 
 I had been there at least an hour, and was grow- 
 ing right drowsy. 
 
 At length Professor Surd came in. He sat down 
 in the dusk opposite me, and I thought his eyes 
 glinted with malignant pleasure as he said, abrupt- 
 ly: 
 
 " So, young man, you think you are a fit hus- 
 band for my girl ?" 
 
 I stammered some inanity about making up in 
 affection what I lacked in merit ; about my expec- 
 tations, family and the like. He quickly inter- 
 rupted me. 
 
 " You misapprehend me, sir. Your nature is 
 destitute of those mathematical perceptions and ac- 
 quirements which are the only sure foundations of 
 character. You have no mathematics in you. You 
 are fit for treason, stratagems, and spoils. Shakes- 
 peare. Your narrow intellect cannot understand 
 and appreciate a generous mind. There is all the 
 difference between you and a Surd, if I may say 
 it, which intervenes between an infinitesimal and 
 an infinite. Why, I will even venture to say that 
 
THE TACHYPOMP. 173 
 
 you do not comprehend the Problem of the 
 Couriers !" 
 
 I admitted that the Problem of the Couriers 
 should be classed rather without my list of accom- 
 plishments than within it. I regretted this fault 
 very deeply, and suggested amendment. I faintly 
 hoped that my fortune would be such 
 
 " Money !" he impatiently exclaimed. " Do 
 you seek to bribe a Roman Senator with a penny 
 whistle ? Why, boy, do you parade your paltry 
 wealth, which, expressed in mills, will not cover 
 ten decimal places, before the eyes of a man who 
 measures the planets in their orbits, and close 
 crowds infinity itself?" 
 
 I hastily disclaimed any intention of obtruding 
 my foolish dollars, and he went on : 
 
 " Your letter surprised me not a little. I 
 thought you would be the last person in the world 
 to presume to an alliance here. But having a re- 
 gard for you personally" and again I saw malice 
 twinkle in his small eyes " and still more regard 
 for Abscissa's happiness, I have decided that you 
 shall have her upon conditions. Upon condi- 
 tions," he repeated, with a half -smothered sneer. 
 
 "What are they?" cried I, eagerly enough. 
 " Only name them." 
 
 " Well, sir," he continued, and the deliberation 
 of his speech seemed the very refinement of cruel- 
 ty, " you have only to prove yourself worthy an 
 alliance with a mathematical family. You have 
 only to accomplish a task which I shall presently 
 
174 THE TACHYPOMP. 
 
 give you. Your eyes ask me what it is. I will tell 
 you. Distinguish yourself in that noble branch of 
 abstract science in which, you cannot but acknowl- 
 edge, you are at present sadly deficient. I will 
 place Abscissa's hand in yours whenever you shall 
 come before me and square the circle to my satis- 
 faction. No ! That is too easy a condition. I 
 should cheat myself. Say perpetual motion. How 
 do you like that ? Do you think it lies within the 
 range of your mental capabilities ? You don't 
 smile. Perhaps your talents don't run in the way 
 of perpetual motion. Several people have found 
 that theirs didn't. I'll give you another chance. 
 We were speaking of the Problem of the Couriers, 
 and I think you expressed a desire to know more 
 of that ingenious question. You shall have the 
 opportunity. Sit down some day, when you have 
 nothing else to do, and discover the principle of 
 infinite speed. I mean the law of motion which 
 shall accomplish an infinitely great distance in an 
 infinitely short time. You may mix in a little 
 practical mechanics, if you choose. Invent some 
 method of taking the tardy Courier over his road 
 at the rate of sixty miles a minute. Demonstrate 
 me this discovery (when you have made it !) 
 mathematically, and approximate it practically, 
 and Abscissa is yours. Until you can, I will thank 
 you to trouble neither myself nor her." 
 
 I could stand his mocking no longer. I stum- 
 bled mechanically out of the room, and out of the 
 house. I even forgot my hat and gloves. For an 
 
THE TACHYPOMP. 175 
 
 hour I walked in the moonlight. Gradually I suc- 
 ceeded to a more hopeful frame of mind. This 
 was due to my ignorance of mathematics. Had I 
 understood the real meaning of what he asked, I 
 should have been utterly despondent. 
 
 Perhaps this problem of sixty miles a minute was 
 not so impossible after all. At any rate I could 
 attempt, though I might not succeed. And Rivarol 
 came to my mind. I would ask him. I would en- 
 list his knowledge to accompany my own devoted 
 perseverance. I sought his lodgings at once. 
 
 The man of science lived in the fourth story, 
 back. I had never been in his room before. 
 When I entered, he was in the act of filling a beer 
 mug from a carboy labelled Aqua fortis. 
 
 " Seat you," he said. " No, not in that chair. 
 That is my Petty Cash Adjuster." But he was a 
 second too late. I had carelessly thrown myself 
 into a chair of seductive appearance. To my utter 
 amazement it reached out two skeleton arms and 
 clutched me with a grasp against which I strug- 
 gled in vain. Then a skull stretched itself over my 
 shoulder and grinned with ghastly familiarity close 
 to my face. 
 
 Rivarol came to my aid with many apologies. 
 He touched a spring somewhere and the Petty Cash 
 Adjuster relaxed its horrid hold. I placed myself 
 gingerly in a plain cane-bottomed rocking-chair, 
 which Rivarol assured me was a safe location. 
 
 " That seat," he said, "is an arrangement upon 
 which I much felicitate myself. I made it at 
 
176 THE TACHYPOMP. 
 
 Heidelberg. It has saved me a vast deal of small 
 annoyance. I consign to its embraces the friends 
 who bore, and the visitors who exasperate, me. 
 But it is never so useful as when terrifying some 
 tradesman with an insignificant account. Hence 
 the pet name which I have facetiously given it. 
 They are invariably too glad to purchase release at 
 the price of a bill receipted. Do you well appre- 
 hend the idea?" 
 
 While the Alsatian diluted his glass of Aqua 
 fortiS) shook into it an infusion of bitters, and toss- 
 ed off the bumper with apparent relish, I had time 
 to look around the strange apartment. 
 
 The four corners of the room were occupied re- 
 spectively by a turning-lathe, a Rhumkorff Coil, 
 a small steam-engine and an orrery in stately 
 motion. Tables, shelves, chairs and floor support- 
 ed an odd aggregation of tools, retorts, chemicals, 
 gas-receivers, philosophical instruments, boots, 
 flasks, paper-collar boxes, books diminutive and 
 books of preposterous size. There were plaster 
 busts of Aristotle, Archimedes, and Comte, while 
 a great drowsy owl was blinking away, perched on 
 the benign brow of Martin Farquhar Tupper. 
 " He always roosts there when he proposes to 
 slumber," explained my tutor. ;< You are a bird 
 of no ordinary mind. Schlafen Sic wohl." 
 
 Through a closet door, half open, I could see a 
 human-like form covered with a sheet. Rivarol 
 caught my glance. 
 
 " That," said he, " will be my masterpiece. It 
 
THE TACHYPOMP. 177 
 
 is a Microcosm, an Android, as yet only partially 
 complete. And why not ? Albertus Magnus con- 
 structed an image perfect to talk metaphysics and 
 confute the schools. So did Sylvester II.; so did 
 Robertus Greathead. Roger Bacon made a brazen 
 head that held discourses. But the first named of 
 these came to destruction. Thomas Aquinas got 
 wrathful at some of its syllogisms and smashed its 
 head. The idea is reasonable enough. Mental ac- 
 tion will yet be reduced to laws as definite as those 
 which govern the physical. Why should not I ac- 
 complish a manikin which shall preach as original 
 discourses as the Rev. Dr. Allchin, or talk poetry 
 as mechanically as Paul Anapest ? My Android 
 can already work problems in vulgar fractions and 
 compose sonnets. I hope to teach it the Positive 
 Philosophy." 
 
 Out of the bewildering confusion of his effects 
 Rivarol produced two pipes and filled them. He 
 handed one to me. 
 
 11 And here," he said, " I live and am tolerably 
 comfortable. When my coat wears out at the 
 elbows I seek the tailor and am measured for 
 another. When I am hungry I promenade myself 
 to the butcher's and bring home a pound or so of 
 steak, which I cook very nicely in three seconds by 
 this oxy-hydrogen flame. Thirsty, perhaps, I send 
 for a carboy of Aquafortis. But I have it charged, 
 all charged. My spirit is above any small pecun- 
 iary transaction. I loathe your dirty greenbacks, 
 and never handle what they call scrip." 
 
178 THE TACHYPOMP. 
 
 "But are you never pestered with bills?" I 
 asked. " Don't the creditors worry your life out ?" 
 
 " Creditors !" gasped Rivarol. " I have learn- 
 ed no such word in your very admirable language. 
 He who will allow his soul to be vexed by cred- 
 itors is a relic of an imperfect civilization. Of 
 what use is science if it cannot avail a man who 
 has accounts current ? Listen. The moment you 
 or any one else enters the outside door this little 
 electric bell sounds me warning. Every successive 
 step on Mrs. Grimier' s staircase is a spy and in- 
 former vigilant for my benefit. The first step is 
 trod upon. That trusty first step immediately tele- 
 graphs your weight. Nothing could be simpler. 
 It is exactly like any platform scale. The weight 
 is registered up here upon this dial. The second 
 step records the size of my visitor's feet. The 
 third his height, the fourth his complexion, and so 
 on. By the time he reaches the top of the first 
 flight I have a pretty accurate description of him 
 right here at my elbow, and quite a margin of time 
 for deliberation and action. Do you follow me ? 
 It is plain enough. Only the A B C of my science/ ' 
 
 " I see all that," I said, " but I don't see how it 
 helps you any. The knowledge that a creditor is 
 coming won't pay his bill. You can't escape unless 
 you jump out of the window." 
 
 Rivarol laughed softly. " I will tell you. You 
 shall see what becomes of any poor devil who goes 
 to demand money of me of a man of science. Ha ! 
 ha ! It pleases me. I was seven weeks perfecting 
 
THE TACHYPOMP. 179 
 
 my Dun Suppressor. Did you know" he whis- 
 pered exultingly " did you know that there is a 
 hole through the earth's centre ? Physicists have 
 long suspected it ; I was the first to find it. You 
 have read how Rhuyghens, the Dutch navigator, 
 discovered in Kerguellen's Land an abysmal pit 
 which fourteen hundred fathoms of plumb-line fail- 
 ed to sound. Herr Tom, that hole has no bottom ! 
 It runs from one surface of the earth to the anti- 
 podal surface. It is diametric. But where is the 
 antipodal spot ? You stand upon it. I learned 
 this by the merest chance. I was deep-digging in 
 Mrs. Grimier' s cellar, to bury a poor cat I had sac- 
 rificed in a galvanic experiment, when the earth 
 under my spade crumbled, caved in, and wonder- 
 stricken I stood upon the brink of a yawning shaft. 
 I dropped a coal-hod in. It went down, down 
 down, bounding and rebounding. In two hours 
 and a quarter that coal-hod came up again. I 
 caught it and restored it to the angry Grimier. 
 Just think a minute. The coal-hod went down, 
 faster and faster, till it reached the centre of the 
 earth. There it would stop, were it not for acquir- 
 ed momentum. Beyond the centre its journey was 
 relatively upward, toward the opposite surface of 
 the globe. So, losing velocity, it went slower and 
 slower till it reached that surface. Here it came to 
 rest for a second and then fell back again, eight 
 thousand odd miles, into my hands. Had I not 
 interfered with it, it would have repeated its jour- 
 ney, time after time, each trip of shorter extent, 
 
i8o THE TACHYPOMP. 
 
 like the diminishing oscillations of a pendulum, 
 till it finally came to eternal rest at the centre of 
 the sphere. I am not slow to give a practical ap- 
 plication to any such grand discovery. My Dun 
 Suppressor was born of it. A trap, just outside 
 my chamber door : a spring in here : a creditor on 
 the trap : need I say more ?' 
 
 " But isn't it a trifle inhuman ?" I mildly sug- 
 gested. " Plunging an unhappy being into a per- 
 petual journey to and from Kerguellen's Land, 
 without a moment's warning." 
 
 " I give them a chance. When they come up 
 the first time I wait at the mouth of the shaft with 
 a rope in hand. If they are reasonable and will 
 come to terms, I fling them the line. If they per- 
 ish, 'tis their own fault. Only," he added, with a 
 melancholy smile, " the centre is getting so plug- 
 ged up with creditors that I am afraid there soon 
 will be no choice whatever for 'em." 
 
 By this time I had conceived a high opinion of 
 my tutor's ability. If anybody could send me 
 waltzing through space at an infinite speed, 
 Rivarol could do it. I filled my pipe and told him 
 the story. He heard with grave and patient atten- 
 tion. Then, for full half an hour, he whiffed away 
 in silence. Finally he spoke. 
 
 " The ancient cipher has overreached himself. 
 He has given you a choice of two problems, both 
 of which he deems insoluble. Neither of them is 
 insoluble. The only gleam of intelligence Old 
 Cotangent showed was when he said that squaring 
 
THE TACHYPOMP. 181 
 
 the circle was too easy. He was right. It would 
 have given you your Liebchen in five minutes. I 
 squared the circle before I discarded pantalets. 
 I will show you the work but it would be a digres- 
 sion, and you are in no mood for digressions. Our 
 first chance, therefore, lies in perpetual motion. 
 Now, my good friend, I will frankly tell you that, 
 although I have compassed this interesting prob- 
 lem, I do not choose to use it in your behalf. I 
 too, Herr Tom, have a heart. The loveliest of her 
 sex frowns upon me. Her somewhat mature 
 charms are not for Jean Marie Rivarol. She has 
 cruelly said that her years demand of me filial 
 rather than connubial regard. Is love a matter of 
 years or of eternity ? This question did I put to 
 the cold, yet lovely Jocasta." 
 
 "Jocasta Surd !" I remarked in surprise, " Ab- 
 scissa's aunt !" 
 
 "The same," he said, sadly. "I will not at- 
 tempt to conceal that upon the maiden Jocasta my 
 maiden heart has been bestowed. Give me your 
 hand, my nephew in affliction as in affection !" 
 
 Rivarol dashed away a not discreditable tear, 
 and resumed : 
 
 " My only hope lies in this discovery of perpet- 
 ual motion. It will give me the fame, the wealth. 
 Can Jocasta refuse these ? If she can, there is only 
 the trap-door and Kerguellen's Land !" 
 
 I bashfully asked to see the perpetual-motion 
 machine. My uncle in affliction shook his head. 
 
 "At another time," he said. "Suffice it at 
 
1 82 THE TACHYPOMP. 
 
 present to say, that it is something upon the prin- 
 ciple of a woman's tongue. But you see now why 
 we must turn in your case to the alternative condi- 
 tion infinite speed. There are several ways in 
 which this may be accomplished, theoretically. By 
 the lever, for instance. Imagine a lever with a very 
 long and a very short arm. Apply power to the 
 shorter arm which will move it with great velocity. 
 The end of the long arm will move much faster. 
 Now keep shortening the short arm and lengthen- 
 ing the long one, and as you approach infinity in 
 their difference of length, you approach infinity in 
 the speed of the long arm. It would be difficult to 
 demonstrate this practically to the Professor. We 
 must seek another solution. Jean Marie will medi- 
 tate. Come to me in a fortnight. Good-night. 
 But stop ! Have you the money das Geld?" 
 
 " Much more than I need." 
 
 " Good ! Let us strike hands. Gold and 
 Knowledge ; Science and Love. What may not 
 such a partnership achieve ? We go to conquer 
 thee, Abscissa. Vorwdrts /" 
 
 When, at the end of a fortnight, I sought Riva- 
 rol's chamber, I passed with some little trepida- 
 tion over the terminus of the Air Line to Kerguel- 
 len's Land, and evaded the extended arms of the 
 Petty Cash Adjuster. Rivarol drew a mug of ale 
 for me, and filled himself a retort of his own pecul- 
 iar beverage. 
 
 " Come," he said at length. " Let us drink suc- 
 cess to the TACHYPOMP." 
 
THE TACHYPOMP. 183 
 
 " The TACHYPOMP ?" 
 
 " Yes. Why not ? Tachu, quickly, and pempo, 
 pepompa, to send. May it send you quickly to your 
 wedding-day. Abscissa is yours. It is done. 
 When shall we start for the prairies ?" 
 
 " Where is it f I asked, looking in vain around 
 the room for any contrivance which might seem 
 calculated to advance matrimonial prospects. 
 
 " It is here," and he gave his forehead a signifi- 
 cant tap. Then he held forth didactically. 
 
 ' There is force enough in existence to yield us 
 a speed of sixty miles a minute, or even more. 
 All we need is the knowledge how to combine and 
 apply it. The wise man will not attempt to make 
 some great force yield some great speed. He will 
 keep adding the little force to the little force, 
 making each little force yield its little speed, until 
 an aggregate of little forces shall be a great force, 
 yielding an aggregate of little speeds, a great 
 speed. The difficulty is not in aggregating the 
 forces ; it lies in the corresponding aggregation of 
 the speeds. One musket-ball will go, say a mile. 
 It is not hard to increase the force of muskets to a 
 thousand, yet the thousand musket-balls will go no 
 farther, and no faster, than the one. You see, 
 then, where our trouble lies. We cannot readily 
 add speed to speed, as we add force to force. My 
 discovery is simply the utilization of a principle 
 which extorts an increment of speed from each in- 
 crement of power. But this is the metaphysics of 
 physics. Let us be practical or nothing. 
 
1 86 THE TACHYPOMP. 
 
 B also. We have so combined the speeds of those 
 two engines as to accomplish two miles in one 
 minute. Is this all we can do ? Prepare to exer- 
 cise your imagination." 
 
 I lit my pipe. 
 
 " Still two miles of straight track, between A 
 and B. On the track a long platform car, reach- 
 ing from A to within a quarter of a mile of 
 B. We will now discard ordinary locomotives and 
 adopt as our motive power a series of compact 
 magnetic engines, distributed underneath the plat- 
 form car, all along its length." 
 
 " I don't understand those magnetic engines." 
 
 " Well, each of them consists of a great iron 
 horseshoe, rendered alternately a magnet and not 
 a magnet by an intermittent current of electricity 
 from a battery, this current in its turn regulated by 
 clock-work. When the horseshoe is in the circuit, 
 it is a magnet, and it pulls its clapper toward it 
 with enormous power. When it is out of the cir- 
 cuit, the next second, it is not a magnet, and it lets 
 the clapper go. The clapper, oscillating to and 
 fro, imparts a rotatory motion to a fly-wheel, 
 which transmits it to the drivers on the rails. 
 Such are our motors. They are no novelty, for 
 trial has proved them practicable. 
 
 " With a magnetic engine for every truck of 
 wheels, we can reasonably expect to move our im- 
 mense car, and to drive it along at a speed, say, 
 of a mile a minute. 
 
 " The forward end, having but a quarter of a 
 
THE TACHYPOMP. 187 
 
 mile to go, will reach B in fifteen seconds. We 
 will call this platform car number i. On top of 
 number i are laid rails on which another platform 
 car, number 2, a quarter of a mile shorter than 
 number i, is moved in precisely the same way. 
 Number 2, in its turn, is surmounted by number 3, 
 moving independently of the tiers beneath, and a 
 quarter of a mile shorter than number 2. Number 
 2 is a mile and a half long ; number 3 a mile and a 
 quarter. Above, on successive levels, are number 
 4, a mile long ; number 5, three quarters of a mile ; 
 number 6, half a mile ; number 7, a quarter of a 
 mile, and number 8, a short passenger car, on top 
 of all. 
 
 " Each car moves upon the car beneath it, inde- 
 pendently of all the others, at the rate of a mile a 
 minute. Each car has its own magnetic engines. 
 Well, the train being drawn up with the latter end 
 of each car resting against a lofty bumping-post at 
 A, Tom Furnace, the gentlemanly conductor, and 
 Jean Marie Rivarol, engineer, mount by a long lad- 
 der to the exalted number 8. The complicated 
 mechanism is set in motion. What happens ? 
 
 " Number 8 runs a quarter of a mile in fifteen 
 seconds and reaches the end of number 7. Mean- 
 while number 7 has run a quarter of a mile in the 
 same time and reached the end of number 6 ; num- 
 ber 6, a quarter of a mile in fifteen seconds, and 
 reached the end of number 5 ; number 5, the end 
 of number 4 ; number 4, of number 3 ; number 3, 
 of number 2 ; number 2, of number i. And num- 
 
1 88 THE TACHYPOMP. 
 
 her i, in fifteen seconds, has gone its quarter of a 
 mile along the ground track, and has reached sta- 
 tion B. All this has been done in fifteen seconds. 
 Wherefore, numbers i, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8 come 
 to rest against the bumping-post at B, at precisely 
 the same second. We, in number 8, reach B just 
 when number i reaches it. In other words, we ac- 
 complish two miles in fifteen seconds. Each of the 
 eight cars, moving at the rate of a mile a minute, 
 has contributed a quarter of a mile to our journey, 
 and has done its work in fifteen seconds. All the 
 eight did their work at once, during the same fif- 
 teen seconds. Consequently we have been whiz- 
 zed through the air at the somewhat startling speed 
 of seven and a half seconds to the mile. This is 
 the Tachypomp. Does it justify the name ?" 
 
 Although a little bewildered by the complexity of 
 cars, I apprehended the general principle of the 
 machine. I made a diagram, and understood it 
 much better. " You have merely improved on the 
 idea of my moving faster than the train when I 
 was going to the smoking car ?" 
 
 " Precisely. So far we have kept within the 
 bounds of the practicable. To satisfy the Profes- 
 sor, you can theorize in something after this fash- 
 ion : If we double the number of cars, thus de- 
 creasing by one half the distance which each has to 
 go, we shall attain twice the speed. Each of the 
 sixteen cars will have but one eighth of a mile to 
 go. At the uniform rate we have adopted, the two 
 miles can be done in seven and a half instead of 
 
THE TACHYPOMP. 189 
 
 fifteen seconds. With thirty-two cars, and a six- 
 teenth of a mile, or twenty rods difference in their 
 length, we arrive at the speed of a mile in less than 
 two seconds ; with sixty-four cars, each travelling 
 but ten rods, a mile under the second. More than 
 sixty miles a minute ! If this isn't rapid enough 
 for the Professor, tell him to go on, increasing the 
 number of his cars and diminishing the distance 
 each one has to run. If sixty-four cars yield a 
 speed of a mile inside the second, let him fancy a 
 Tachypomp of six hundred and forty cars, and 
 amuse himself calculating the rate of car number 
 640. Just whisper to him that when he has an in- 
 finite number of cars with an infinitesimal differ- 
 ence in their lengths, he will have obtained that 
 infinite speed for which he seems to yearn, Then 
 demand Abscissa." 
 
 I wrung my friend's hand in silent and grateful 
 admiration. I could say nothing. 
 
 " You have listened to the man of theory," he 
 said proudly. " You shall now behold the practi- 
 cal engineer. We will go to the west of the Missis- 
 sippi and find some suitably level locality. We 
 will erect thereon a model Tachypomp. We will 
 summon thereunto the professor, his daughter, and 
 why not his fair sister Jocasta, as well ? We will 
 take them a journey which shall much astonish the 
 venerable Surd. He shall place Abscissa's digits 
 in yours and bless you both with an algebraic for- 
 mula. Jocasta shall contemplate with wonder the 
 genius of Rivarol. But we have much t,o do. We 
 
190 THE TACHYPOMP. 
 
 must ship to St. Joseph the vast amount of mate- 
 rial to be employed in the construction of the 
 Tachypomp. We must engage a small army of 
 workmen to effect that construction, for we are to 
 annihilate time and space. Perhaps you had 
 better see your bankers." 
 
 I rushed impetuously to the door. There should 
 be no delay. 
 
 " Stop! stop ! Um Gottes Willen, stop !" shriek- 
 ed Rivarol. " I launched my butcher this morning' 
 and I haven't bolted the " 
 
 But it was too late. I was upon the trap. It 
 swung open with a crash, and I was plunged 
 down, down, down ! I felt as if I were falling 
 through illimitable space. I remember wondering, 
 as I rushed through the darkness, whether I should 
 reach Kerguellen's Land or stop at the centre. It 
 seemed an eternity. Then my course was sudden- 
 ly and painfully arrested. 
 
 I opened my eyes. Around me were the walls 
 of Professor Surd's study. Under me was a hard, 
 unyielding plane which I knew too well was Pro- 
 fessor Surd's study floor. Behind me was the 
 black, slippery, hair-cloth chair which had belched 
 me forth, much as the whale served Jonah. In 
 front of me stood Professor Surd himself, looking 
 down with a not unpleasant smile. 
 
 " Good-evening, Mr. Furnace. Let me help 
 you up. You look tired, sir. No wonder you fell 
 asleep when I kept you so long waiting. Shall I 
 get you a glass of wine ? No ? By the way, since 
 
THE TACHYPOMP. 191 
 
 receiving your letter I find that you are a son of my 
 old friend, Judge Furnace. I have made inquiries, 
 and see no reason why you should not make Ab- 
 scissa a good husband." 
 
 Still I can see no reason why the Tachypomp 
 should not have succeeded. Can you ? 
 
Stories by American Authors. 
 
 VI. 
 
%* The Stories in this volume are pro- 
 tected by copyright, and are printed here 
 by the authority of the authors or their 
 representatives. 
 
Stories by 
 American Authors 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 
 
 By C. H. WHITE. 
 
 THE DENVER EXPRESS. 
 
 By A. A. HAYES. 
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF BRO' THOMAS 
 WHEATLEY. 
 
 By LINA REDWOOD FAIRFAX. 
 
 THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO. 
 
 By L. W. CHAMPNEY. 
 
 MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 
 
 By ALBERT WEBSTER. 
 
 BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 By HAROLD FREDERIC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 1891 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1884, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 
 
 BY C. H. WHITE. 
 
 ' f E P h ' s g ot back ; the y sav his 
 
 sentence run out yisterday." 
 
 The speaker, John Doane, was a sunburnt fisher- 
 man, one of a circle of well-salted individuals who 
 sat, some on chairs, some on boxes and barrels, 
 around the stove in a country store. 
 
 "Yes," said Captain Seth, a middle-aged little 
 man with earrings ; "he come on the stage to- 
 noon. Wouldn't hardly speak a word, Jim says. 
 Looked kind o' sot and sober." 
 
 " Wall," said the first speaker, " I only hope he 
 won't go to burnin' us out of house and home, same 
 as he burnt up Eliphalet's barn. I was ruther in 
 hopes he'd 'a' made off West. Seems to me I 
 should, in his place, hevin' ben in State's-prison." 
 
 " Now, I allers hed quite a parcel o' sympathy 
 for Eph," said a short, thickset coasting captain, 
 
 % ScribneSs Monthly, August, 1881. 
 
6 THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 
 
 who sat tilted back in a three-legged chair, smoking 
 lazily. " You see, he wa'n't but about twenty-one 
 or two then, and he was allus a mighty high-strung 
 boy ; and then Eliphalet did act putty ha'sh> 
 foreclosin' on Eph's mother, and turnin' her out 
 o' the farm, in winter, when everybody knew she 
 could ha' pulled through by waitin'. Eph sot 
 great store by the old lady, and I expect he was 
 putty mad with Eliphalet that night." 
 
 "1 allers," said Doane, "approved o' his plan 
 o' leadin' out all the critters, 'fore he touched off 
 the barn. 'Taint everybody 't would hev taken 
 pains to do that. But all the same, I tell Sarai't 
 I feel kind o' skittish, nights, to hev to turn in, 
 feelin' 't there's a convict in the place." 
 
 " I hain't got no barn to burn," said Captain 
 Seth ; " but if he allots my henhouse to the flames, 
 I hope he'll lead out the hens, and hitch 'em to 
 the apple trees, same's he did Eliphalet' s critters. 
 Think he ought to deal ekally by all." 
 
 A mild general chuckle greeted this sally, cheered 
 by which the speaker added : 
 
 " Thought some o' takin' out a policy o' insur- 
 ance on my cockerel." 
 
 11 Trade's lookin' up, William," said Captain 
 Seth to the storekeeper, as some one was heard to 
 kick the snow off his boots on the door-step. 
 " Somebody's found he's got to hev a shoestring 
 'fore mornin'." 
 
 The door opened, and closed behind a strongly 
 made fellow of twenty-six or seven, of homely 
 
THE VILLAGE CONVICT. ^ 
 
 features, with black hair, in clothes which he had 
 outgrown. It was a bitter night, but he had no 
 coat over his flannel jacket. He walked straight 
 down the store, between the dry-goods counters, 
 to the snug corner at the rear, where the knot of 
 talkers sat ; nodded, without a smile, to each of 
 them, and then asked the storekeeper for some 
 simple articles of food, which he wished to buy. 
 It was Eph. 
 
 While the purchases were being put up, an awk- 
 ward silence prevailed, which the oil-suits hanging 
 on the walls, broadly displaying their arms and 
 legs, seemed to mock, in dumb show. 
 
 Nothing was changed, to Eph's eyes, as he 
 looked about. Even the handbill of familiar 
 pattern : 
 
 " STANDING WOOD FOR SALE. 
 APPLY TO J. CARTER, ADMIN' R," 
 
 seemed to have always been there. 
 
 The village parliament remained spellbound. 
 Mr. Adams tied up the purchases and mildly in- 
 quired : 
 
 "Shall I charge this?" 
 
 Not that he was anxious to open an account, but 
 that he would probably have gone to the length of 
 selling Eph a barrel of molasses " on tick" rather 
 than run any risk of offending so formidable a 
 character. 
 
 " No," said Eph ; " I will pay for the things." 
 
 And having put the packages into a canvas bag, 
 
8 THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 
 
 and selected some fish-hooks and lines from the 
 show-case, where they lay environed by jack- 
 knives, jewsharps, and gum-drops dear to the 
 eyes of his childhood he paid what was due, said 
 "Good-night, William," to the storekeeper, and 
 walked steadily out into the night. 
 
 " Wall," said the skipper, " I am surprised ! I 
 strove to think o' suthin' to say, all the time he 
 was here, but I swow I couldn't think o' nothin'. 
 I couldn't ask him if it seemed good to git home, 
 nor how the thermometer had varied in different 
 parts o' the town where he'd been. Everything 
 seemed to fetch right up standin' to the State's- 
 prison." 
 
 " I was just goin' to say, * How'd ye leave every- 
 body ?' " said Doane ; " but that kind o' seemed 
 to bring up them he'd left. I felt real bad, 
 though, to hev the feller go off 'thout none on us 
 speakin' to him. He's got a hard furrer to plough ; 
 and yet I don't s'pose there's much harm in him, 
 'f Eliphalet only keeps quiet." 
 
 " Eliphalet !" said a young sailor, contemptu- 
 ously. " No fear o' him ! They say he's so sea' t of 
 Eph he hain't hardly swallowed nothin' for a week." 
 
 " But where will he live ?" asked a short, curly- 
 haired young man, whom Eph had seemed not to 
 recognize. It was the new doctor, who, after 
 having made his way through college and " the 
 great medical school in Boston," had, two years 
 before, settled in this village. 
 
 " I believe," said Mr. Adams, rubbing his 
 
THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 9 
 
 hands, " that he wrote to Joshua Carr last winter, 
 when his mother died, not to let the little place 
 she left, on the Salt Hay Road, and I understand 
 that he is going to make his home there. It is an 
 old house, you know, and not worth much, but it 
 is weather-tight, I should say." 
 
 " Speakin' of his writin' to Joshua," said Doane, 
 " I have heard such a sound as that he used to 
 shine up to Joshua's Susan, years back. But that's 
 all ended now. You won't catch Susan marryin' 
 no jailbirds." 
 
 '* But how will he live ?" said the doctor. 
 " Will anybody give him work ?" 
 
 " Let him alone for livin'," said Doane. " He 
 can ketch more fish than any other two men in the 
 place allers seemed to kind o' hev a knack o' 
 whistlin' 'em right into the boat. And then Nel- 
 son Briggs, that settled up his mother's estate, 
 allows he's got over a hundred and ten dollars for 
 him, after payin' debts and all probate expenses, 
 and that and the place is all he needs to start on." 
 
 " I will go to see him," said the doctor to him- 
 self, as he went out upon the requisition of a grave 
 man in a red tippet, who had just come for him. 
 " He doesn't look so very dangerous, and I think 
 he can be tamed. I remember that his mother told 
 me about him." 
 
 Late that night, returning from his seven miles' 
 drive, as he left the causeway, built across a wide 
 stretch of salt-marsh, crossed the rattling plank 
 bridge and ascended the hill, he saw a light in the 
 
16 TttE VILLAGE CONVICT. 
 
 cottage Window, where he had often been to attend 
 Aunt Lois. " I will stop now," said he. And, 
 tying his horse to the front fence, he went toward 
 the kitchen door. As he passed the window, he 
 glanced in. A lamp was burning on the table. 
 On a settle, lying upon his face, was stretched the 
 convict, his arms beneath his head. The canvas 
 bag lay on the floor beside him. " I will not dis- 
 turb him now," said the doctor. 
 
 A few days later Dr. Burt was driving in his 
 sleigh with his wife along the Salt Hay Road. It 
 was a clear, crisp winter forenoon. As they neared 
 Eph's house, he said : 
 
 " Mary, suppose I lay siege to the fort this morn- 
 ing. I see a curl of smoke rising from the little 
 shop in the barn. He must be making himself a 
 jimmy or a dark-lantern to break into our vegetable 
 cellar with." 
 
 " Well," said she, " I think it would be a good 
 plan ; only, you know, you must be very, very 
 careful not to hint, even in the faintest way, at his 
 imprisonment. You mustn't so much as suspect 
 that he has ever been away from the place. People 
 hardly dare to speak to him, for fear he will see 
 some reference to his having been in prison, and 
 get angry." 
 
 " You shall see my sly tact," said her husband, 
 laughing. " I will be as innocent as a lamb. I 
 will ask him why I have not seen him at the Sab- 
 bath-school this winter." 
 
THE VILLAGE CONVICT. il 
 
 " You may make fun," said she, " but you will 
 end by taking my advice, all the same. Now, do 
 be careful what you say." 
 
 " I will," he replied. " I will compose my 
 remarks carefully upon the back of an envelope and 
 read them to him, so as to be absolutely sure. I 
 will leave on his mind an impression that I have 
 been in prison, and that he was the judge that tried 
 me." 
 
 He drove in at the open gate, hitched his horse 
 in a warm corner by the kitchen door, and then 
 stopped for a moment to enjoy the view. The sit- 
 uation of the little house, half a mile from any 
 other, was beautiful in summer, but it was bleak 
 enough in winter. In the small front dooryard 
 stood three lofty, wind-blown poplars, all heading 
 away from the sea, and between them you could 
 look down the bay or across the salt-marshes, 
 while in the opposite direction were to be seen the 
 roofs and the glittering spires of the village. 
 
 " It is social for him here, to say the least," said 
 the doctor, as he turned and walked alone to the 
 shop. He opened the door and went in. It was a 
 long, low lean-to, such as farmers often furnish for 
 domestic work, with a carpenter's bench, a grind- 
 stone, and a few simple tools. It was lighted by 
 three square windows above the bench. An air- 
 tight stove, projecting its funnel through a hole in 
 one of the panes, gave out a cheerfuf crackling. 
 
 Eph, in his shirt-sleeves, his hands in his pockets, 
 was standing, his back against the bench, survey- 
 
12 THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 
 
 ing, with something of a mechanic's eye, the frame 
 of a boat which was set up on the floor. 
 
 He looked up and colored slightly. The doctor 
 took out a cigarette, lit it, sat down on the bench, 
 and smoked, clasping one knee in his hands and 
 eying the boat. 
 
 " Centre-board ?" he asked, at length. 
 
 "Yes," saidEph. 
 
 41 Cat- rig?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 11 Going fishing?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Alone?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I was brought up to sail a boat," said the 
 doctor, "and I often go fishing in summer, when 
 I get a chance. I shall want to try your boat some 
 time." 
 
 No reply. 
 
 " The timbers are not seasoned, are they ? They 
 look like pitch-pine, just out of the woods. Won't 
 they warp ?' ' 
 
 " No. Pitch-pine goes right in, green. I s'pose 
 the pitch keeps it, if it's out of the sun." 
 
 " Where did you cut it ?" 
 
 Eph colored a little. 
 
 "In my back lot." 
 
 The doctor smoked on calmly, and studied the 
 boat. 
 
 " I don't know you," said Eph, relaxing a little. 
 
 "Good reason," said the doctor. "I've only 
 
THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 13 
 
 been here two years ;" and after a moment's pause, 
 he added : " I am the doctor here, now. You've 
 heard of my father, Dr. Burt, of Broad River ?" 
 
 Eph nodded assent ; everybody knew him, all 
 through the country ; a fatherly old man, who 
 rode on long journeys at everybody's call, and 
 never sent in his bills. 
 
 The visitor had a standing with Eph at once. 
 
 " Doctors never pick at folks," he said to him- 
 self " at any rate, not old Dr. Burt's son." 
 
 " I used to come here to see your mother," said 
 the doctor, " when she was sick. She used to talk 
 a great deal about you, and said she wanted me to 
 get acquainted with you, when your time was out." 
 
 Eph started, but said nothing. 
 
 " She was a good woman, Aunt Lois," added 
 the doctor ; " one of the best women I ever saw." 
 
 " I don't want anybody to bother himself on my 
 account," said Eph. " I ask no favors." 
 
 "You will have to take favors, though," said 
 the doctor, " before the winter is over. You will 
 be careless and get sick ; you have been living for 
 a long time entirely in-doors, with regular hours 
 and work and food. Now you are going to live 
 out-of-doors, and get your own meals, irregularly. 
 You didn't have on a thick coat the other night, 
 when I saw you at the store." 
 
 " I haven't got any that's large enough for me," 
 said Eph, a little less harshly, " and I've got to 
 keep my money for other things." 
 
 " Then look out and wear flannel shirts enough," 
 
14 THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 
 
 said the doctor, " if you want to be independent. 
 But before I go, I want to go into the house. I 
 want my wife to see Aunt Lois' s room, and the 
 view from the west window ;" and he led the way 
 to the sleigh. 
 
 Eph hesitated a moment, and then followed him. 
 
 " Mary, this is Ephraim Morse. We are going 
 in to see the Dutch tiles I have told you of." 
 
 She smiled as she held out her mittened hand tc 
 Eph, who took it awkwardly. 
 
 The square front room, which had been 
 originally intended for a keeping-room, but had 
 been Aunt Lois's bedroom, looked out from two 
 windows upon the road, and from two upon the 
 rolling, tumbling bay, and the shining sea beyond. 
 A tall clock, with a rocking ship above the face, 
 ticked in the corner. The painted floor with bright 
 rag-mats, the little table with a lacquer work-box, 
 the stiff chairs, and the old-fashioned bedstead, the 
 china ornaments upon the mantel-piece, the picture 
 of "The Emeline G. in the Harbor of Canton," 
 were just as they had been when the patient invalid 
 had lain there, looking from her pillow out to sea. 
 In twelve rude tiles set around the open fireplace, 
 the Hebrews were seen in twelve stages of their 
 escape from Egypt. It would appear from this 
 representation that they had not restricted their 
 borrowings to the jewels of their oppressors, but 
 had taken for the journey certain Dutch clothing 
 of the fashion of the seventeenth century. The 
 scenery, too, was much like that about Leyden. 
 
THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 15 
 
 "I think," said the doctor's wife, "that the 
 painter was just a little absent-minded when he put 
 
 in that beer-barrel. And a wharf, by the Red Sea !" 
 ****** 
 
 " I wish you would conclude to rig your boat 
 with a new sail," said the doctor, as he took up the 
 reins, at parting. " There isn't a boat here that's 
 kept clean, and I should like to hire yours once or 
 twice a week in summer, if you keep her as neat 
 as you do your house. Come in and see me some 
 evening, and we'll talk it over." 
 
 Eph built his boat, and, in spite of his evident 
 dislike of visitors, the inside finish and the arrange- 
 ments of the little cabin were so ingenious and so 
 novel that everybody had to pay him a visit. 
 
 True to his plan of being independent, he built 
 in the side of the hill, near his barn, by a little 
 gravelly pond, an ice-house, and, with the hardest 
 labor, filled it, all by himself. With this supply, 
 he would not have to go to the general wharf at 
 Sandy Point to sell his fish, with the other men, 
 but could pack and ship them himself. And he 
 could do better, in this way, he thought, even after 
 paying for teaming them to the cars. 
 
 The knowing ones laughed to see that, from ask- 
 ing no advice, he had miscalculated and laid in 
 three times as much as he could use. 
 
 " Guess Eph cal'lates ter fish with two lines in 
 each hand and 'nother in his teeth," said Mr. 
 Wing. " He's plannin' out for a great lay o' fish/ 
 
1 6 THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 
 
 The spring came slowly on, and the first boat 
 that went out that season was Eph's. That day 
 Was one of unmixed delight to him. What a sense 
 of absolute freedom, when he was fairly out 
 beyond the lightship, with the fresh swiftness of 
 the wind in his face ! What an exquisite con- 
 sciousness of power and control, as his boat went 
 beating through the long waves ! Two or three 
 men from another village sailed across his wake. 
 His boat lay over, almost showing her keel, now 
 high out of water, now settling between the waves, 
 while Eph stood easily in the stern in his shirt- 
 sleeves, steering with his knee, smoking a pipe, 
 heaving and hauling his line astern for bluefish. 
 
 "Takes it nat'ral ag'in, don't he? Stands as 
 easy as ef he was loafin' on a wharf," said one of 
 the observers. " Expect it's quite a treat to be 
 out. But they do say he's gittin' everybody's 
 good opinion. They looked for a regular ruffian 
 when he come home cuttin' nets, killin' cats, 
 chasin' hens, gittin' drunk. They say Eliphalet 
 Wood didn't hardly dare to go ou' doors for a 
 month, 'thout havin' his hired man along. But 
 he's turned out as peaceful as a little gal." 
 
 One June day, as Eph was slitting bluefish at 
 the little pier which he had built on the bay-shore, 
 near his rude ice-house, two men came up. 
 
 "Hallo, Eph !" 
 
 "Hallo." 
 
 "We've got about sick, tradin' down to the 
 
THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 17 
 
 wharf ; we can't git no fair show. About one time 
 in three, they tell us they don't want our fish, and 
 won't take take 'em unless we'll heave 'em in for 
 next to nothin', and we know there ain't no sense 
 in it. So we just thought we'd slip down and see 
 ef you wouldn't take 'em, seein's you've got ice, 
 and send 'em up with yourn." 
 
 Eph was taken all aback with this mark of confi- 
 dence. He would decline the offer, sure that it 
 sprang from some mere passing vexation. 
 
 " I can't buy fish," said he. "I have no scales 
 to weigh 'em." 
 
 " Then send ourn in separate barrels," said one 
 of them. 
 
 " But I haven't any money to pay you," he said. 
 " I only get my pay once a month." 
 
 " We'll git tick at William's, and you can settle 
 'th us when you git your pay." 
 
 "Well," said he, unable to refuse, " I'll take 
 'em, if you say so." 
 
 Before the season was over, he had still another 
 customer, and could have had three or four more, 
 if he had had ice enough. He was strongly in- 
 clined that fall to build a larger ice-house, and 
 although he was a little afraid of bringing ridicule 
 upon himself in case no fish should be brought to 
 him the next summer, he decided to do so, on the 
 assurance of three or four men that they would 
 deal with him. Nobody else had such a chance, 
 he thought a pond right by the shore. 
 
 One evening there was a knock at the door of 
 
1 8 THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 
 
 Eliphalet Wood, the owner of the burned barn. 
 Eliphalet went to the door, but turned pale at see- 
 ing Eph there. 
 
 " Oh, come in, come in !" he panted. " Glad to 
 see you. Walk in. Have a chair. Take a seat. 
 Sit down." 
 
 But he thought his hour had come : he was alone 
 in the house, and there was no neighbor within 
 call. 
 
 Eph took out a roll of bills, counted out eighty 
 dollars, laid the money on the table, and said, 
 quietly : 
 
 " Give me a receipt on account." 
 
 When it was written he walked out, leaving 
 Eliphalet stupefied. 
 
 Joshua Carr was at work, one June afternoon, by 
 the road-side, in front of his low cottage, by an 
 enormous pile of poles, which he was shaving down 
 for barrel-hoops, when Eph appeared. 
 
 " Hard at it, Joshua !" he said. 
 
 " Yes, yes !" said Joshua, looking up through 
 his steel-bowed spectacles. " Hev to work hard 
 to make a livin' though I don't know's I ought 
 to call it hard, neither ; and yet it is rather hard, 
 too ; but then, on t'other hand, 'taint so hard as a 
 good many other things though there is a good 
 many jobs that's easier. That's so ! That's so ! 
 
 " ' Must we be kerned to the skies 
 On feathery beds of ease ? ' 
 
THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 19 
 
 Though I don' know's I oughter quote a hymn on 
 such a matter ; but then I don* know's there's 
 any particular harm in't, neither." 
 
 Eph sat down on a pile of shavings and chewed a 
 sliver ; and the old man kept on at his work. 
 
 " Hoop-poles goin' up and hoops goin' down," 
 he continued. " Cur'us, ain't it? But then, I 
 don' know as 'tis ; woods all bein' cut off poles 
 gittin' scurcer ; hoops bein' shoved in from Down 
 East. That don' seem just right, now, does it 
 but then, other folks must make a livin' , too. Still, 
 I should think they might take up suthin' else ; 
 and yet, they might say that about me. Under- 
 stand, I don' mean to say that they actually do 
 say so ; I don' want to run down any man unless 
 I know " 
 
 " I can't stand this," said Eph to himself ; " I 
 don't wonder that they always used to put Joshua 
 off at the first port, when he tried to go coast- 
 ing. They said he talked them crazy with 
 nothing. 
 
 " I'll go into the house and see Aunt Lyddy," 
 he said, aloud. " I'm loafing this afternoon." 
 
 "All right! all right !" said Joshua. " Lyd- 
 dy'll be glad to see ye that is, as glad as she 
 would be to see anybody," he added, reaching out 
 for a pole. " Now, I don' s'pose that sounds 
 very well ; but still, you know how she is she 
 allus likes to hev folks to talk, and then she's allus 
 sayin' talkin' wears on her ; but I ought not to say 
 that to you, because she allus likes to see you that 
 
20 THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 
 
 is, as much as she likes to see anybody in fact, I 
 think, on the whole " 
 
 "Well, I'll take my chances," said Eph, laugh- 
 ing, and he opened the gate and went in. 
 
 Joshua's wife, whom everybody called Aunt 
 Lyddy, was oscillating in a rocking-chair in the 
 kitchen, and knitting. It was currently reported 
 that Joshua's habit of endlessly retracting and 
 qualifying every idea and modification of an idea 
 which he advanced, so as to commit himself to 
 nothing, was the effect of Aunt Lyddy's careful 
 revision. 
 
 " I s'pose she thought 'twas fun to be talked 
 cleef when they was courtin'," Captain Seth had 
 once sagely remarked. " Prob'ly it sounded then 
 like a putty piece on a seraphine ; but I allers 
 cal'lated she'd git her fill of it, sooner or later. 
 You most gin'lly git your fill o' one tune." 
 
 "How are you this afternoon, Aunt Lyddy?" 
 asked Eph, walking in without knocking, and 
 sitting down near her. 
 
 "So as to be able to keep about," she replied. 
 "It is a great mercy I ain't afflicted with falling 
 out of my chair, like Hepsy Jones, ain't it ?" 
 
 " I've brought you some oysters," he said. " I 
 set the basket down on the door-step. I just took 
 them out of the water myself from the bed I 
 planted to the west of the water-fence." 
 
 "I always heard you was a great fisherman," 
 said Aunt Lyddy, " but I had no idea you would 
 ever come here and boast of being able to catch 
 
Tff VILLAGE CONVICT. 11 
 
 oysters. Poor things ! How could they have got 
 away ? But why don't you bring them in ? They 
 won't be afraid of me, will they ?" 
 
 He stepped to the door and brought in a peck 
 basket full of large, black, twisted shells, and 
 with a heavy clasp-knife proceeded to open one, 
 and took out a great oyster, which he held up on 
 the point of the blade. 
 
 " Try it," he said ; and then Aunt Lyddy, after 
 she had swallowed it, laughed to think what a 
 tableau they had made a man who had been in 
 the State-prison standing over her with a great 
 knife ! And then she laughed again. 
 
 " What are you laughing at ?" he said. 
 
 " It popped into my head, supposing Susan 
 should have looked in at the south window and 
 Joshua into the door, when you was feeding out 
 that oyster to me, what they would have thought !" 
 
 Eph laughed, too, and, surely enough, just then 
 a stout, light-haired, rather plain-looking young 
 woman came up to the south window and leaned 
 in. She had on a sun-bonnet, which had not pre- 
 vented her from securing a few choice freckles. 
 She had been working with a trowel in her flower- 
 garden. 
 
 "What's the matter?" she said, nodding easily 
 to Eph. " What do you two always find to laugh 
 about ?" 
 
 " Ephraim was feeding me with spoon-meat," 
 said Aunt Lyddy, pointing to the basket, which 
 looked like a basket of anthracite coal. 
 
22 THE VILLAGE CONVICT, 
 
 " It looks like spoon-meat," said Susan, and 
 then she laughed too. " I'll roast some of 
 them for supper," she added, " a new way that I 
 know." 
 
 Eph was not invited to stay to supper, but he 
 stayed, none the less : that was always understood. 
 
 "Well! Well! Well!" said Joshua, coming 
 to the door-step, and washing his hands and 
 arms just outside, in a tin basin. " I thought I see 
 you set down a parcel of oysters but there was 
 seaweed over 'em, and I don' know's I could hev 
 said they was oysters ; but then, if the square 
 question hed been put to me, ' Mr. Carr, be them 
 oysters or not?' I s'pose I should hev said they 
 was ; still, if they'd asked me how I knew " 
 
 " Come, come, father !" said Aunt Lyddy, " do 
 give poor Ephraim a little peace. Why don't you 
 just say you thought they were oysters, and done 
 with it?" 
 
 " Say I thought they was ?" he replied, innocently. 
 " I knew well enough they was that is knew ? 
 No, I didn't know, but" 
 
 Aunt Lyddy, with an air of mock resignation, 
 gave up, while Joshua endeavored to fix, to a hair, 
 the exact extent of his knowledge. 
 
 Eph smiled ; but he remembered what would 
 have made him pardon, a thousand times over, the 
 old man's garrulousness. He remembered who 
 alone had never failed, once a year, to visit a cer- 
 tain prisoner, at the cost of a long and tiresome 
 journey, and who had written to that homesick 
 
THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 2$ 
 
 prisoner kind and cheering letters, and had sent 
 him baskets of simple dainties for holidays. 
 
 Susan bustled about, and made a fire of crack, 
 ling sticks, and began to roast the oysters in a way 
 that made a most savory smell. She set the table, 
 and then sat down at the melodeon, while she was 
 waiting, and sang a hymn for she was of a 
 musical turn, and was one of the choir. Then 
 she jumped up, and took out the steaming oysters, 
 and they all sat down. 
 
 " Well, well, well !" said her father ; " these be 
 good ! I didn't s'pose you had any very good oys- 
 ters in your bed, Ephraim. But there, now I don' 
 s'pose I ought to have said that ; that wasn't very 
 polite ; but what I meant was I didn't s'pose you 
 had any that was real good though I don' know 
 but that I've said about the same thing, now. 
 Well, anyway, these be splendid ; they're full as 
 good as those cohogs we had t'other night." 
 
 " Quahaugs !" said Susan. "The idea of com- 
 paring these oysters with quahaugs !" 
 
 " Well, well ! that's so !" said the father. " I 
 didn't say right, did I, when I said that? Of 
 course, they ain't no comparison that is no com- 
 parison why, of course, they is a comparison 
 between everything, but then, cohogs don' really 
 compare with oysters ! That's true !" 
 
 And then he paused to eat a few. 
 
 He was silent so long at this occupation that they 
 all laughed. 
 
 " Well, well !" said he, laying down his fork, and 
 
24 TttE VILLAGE CONVICT. 
 
 smiling innocently ; " what be you all laughin' at ? 
 Not but what I allers like to hev folks laugh but 
 then I didn't see nothin' to laugh at. Still, 
 perhaps, they was suthin' to laugh at that I didn't 
 see ; sometimes one man'll be lookin'- down into 
 his plate, all taken up with his vittles, and others, 
 that's lookin' around the room, may see the kittens 
 frolickin', or some such thing. 'Tain't the fust 
 time I've known all hands to laugh all to onct, 
 when I didn't see nothin'." 
 
 Susan helped him again, and secured another 
 brief respite. 
 
 " Ephraim," said he, after awhile, "you ain't 
 skilled to cook oysters like this, I don' believe. 
 You ought to get married ! I was sayin' to Susan 
 t'other day well, now, mother, have I said an'- 
 thing out o' the way ? well, I don' s'pose 'twas 
 just my place to hev said an'thing about gittin' 
 married, to Ephraim, seein's 
 
 " Come, come, father," said Aunt Lyddy, 
 " that'll do, now. You must let Ephraim alone, 
 and not joke him about such things." 
 
 Meanwhile Susan had hastily gone into the 
 pantry to look for a pie, which she seemed unable 
 at once to find. 
 
 " Pie got adrift?" called out Joshua. "Seems 
 to me you don' hook on to it very quick. Now 
 that looks good," he added, when she came out. 
 " That looks like cookin' ! All I meant was, 't 
 Ephraim ought not to be doin' his own cookin' 
 that is if you can call it cookin' but then, of 
 
THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 25 
 
 course, 'tis cookin' there's all kinds o' cookin'. 
 I went cook myself, when I was a boy." 
 
 After supper, Aunt Lyddy sat down to knit, and 
 Joshua drew his chair up to an open window, to 
 smoke his pipe. In this vice Aunt Lyddy encour- 
 aged him. The odor of Virginia tobacco was a 
 sweet savor in her nostrils. No breezes from Araby 
 ever awoke more grateful feelings than did the 
 fragrance of Uncle Joshua's pipe. To Aunt Lyddy 
 it meant quiet and peace. 
 
 Susan and Eph sat down on the broad flag door- 
 stone, and talked quietly of the simple news of the 
 neighborhood, and of the days when they used to 
 go to school, and come home, always together. 
 
 "I didn't much think, then," said Eph, "that 
 I should ever bring up where I have, and get 
 ashore before I was fairly out to sea !" 
 
 " Jehiel's schooner got ashore on the bar, years 
 ago," said Susan, " and yet they towed her off, 
 and I saw her this morning, from my chamber 
 window, before sunrise, all sail set, going by to the 
 eastward." 
 
 " I know what you mean," said Eph. " But 
 here I got mad once, and I almost had a right to, 
 and I can't get started again ; I never shall. I can 
 get a livin', of course ; but I shall always be 
 pointed out as a jail-bird, and could no more get 
 any footin' in the world than Portuguese Jim." 
 
 Portuguese Jim was the sole professional criminal 
 of the town, a weak, good-natured, knock-kneed 
 vagabond, who stole hens, and spent every winter 
 
26 THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 
 
 in the House of Correction as an " idle and dis- 
 orderly person." 
 
 Susan laughed outright at the picture. Eph 
 smiled, too, but a little bitterly. 
 
 " I suppose it was more ugliness than anything 
 else," he said, " that made me come back here to 
 live, where everybody knows I've been in jail and 
 is down on me." 
 
 " They are not down on you," said Susan. " No- 
 body is down on you. It's all your own imagina- 
 tion. And if you had gone anywhere that you was 
 a stranger, you know that the first thing that you 
 would have done would have been to call a meetin' 
 and tell all the people that you had burned down 
 a man's barn, and been in the State' s-prison, and 
 that you wanted them all to know it at the start ; 
 and you wouldn't have told them why you did it, 
 and how young you was then, and how Eliphalet 
 treated your mother, and how you was going to 
 pay him for all he lost. Here, everybody knows 
 that side of it. In fact," she added, with a little 
 twinkle in her eye, " I have sometimes had an idea 
 that the main thing they don't like is to see you 
 savin' every cent to pay to Eliphalet." 
 
 " And yet it was on your say that I took up that 
 plan," said Eph. " I never thought of it till you 
 asked me when I was goin' to begin to pay him up." 
 
 " And you ought to," said Susan. " He has a 
 right to the money and then you don't want to be 
 under obligations to that man all your life. Now, 
 what you want to do is to cheer up and go around 
 
THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 27 
 
 among folks. Why, now, you're the only fish- 
 buyer there is that the men don't watch when he's 
 weighin' their fish. You'll own up to that, for 
 one thing, won't you ?" 
 
 " Well, they are good fellows that bring fish to 
 me," he said. 
 
 " They weren't good fellows when they traded 
 at the great wharf," said Susan. " They had a 
 quarrel down there once a week, reg'larly." 
 
 " Well, suppose they do trust me in that," said 
 Eph. " I can never rub out that I've been in 
 State's-prison." 
 
 " You don't want to rub it out. You can't rub 
 anything out that's ever been ; but you can do 
 better than rub it out." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 " Take things just the way they are," said 
 Susan, " and show what can be done. Perhaps 
 you'll stake a new channel out, for others to follow 
 in that haven't half so much chance as you have. 
 And that's what you will do, too," she added. 
 
 " Susan !" he said, " if there's anything I can 
 ever do, in this world or the next, for you or your 
 folks, that's all I ask for, the chance to do it. Your 
 folks and you shall never want for anything while 
 I'm alive. 
 
 " There's one thing sure," he added, rising. 
 " I'll live by myself and be independent of every- 
 body, and make my way all alone in the world ; 
 and if I can make 'em all finally own up and admit 
 that I'm honest with 'em, I'm satisfied. That's all 
 
28 THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 
 
 I'll ever ask of anybody. But there's one thing 
 that worries me sometimes that is, whether I 
 ought to come here so often. I'm afraid, some- 
 times, that it'll hinder your father from gettin' 
 work, or something for you folks to be friends 
 with me." 
 
 " I think such things take care of themselves," 
 said Susan, quietly. " If a chip won't float, let it 
 sink." 
 
 " Good-night," said Eph, and he walked off, 
 and went home to his echoing house. 
 
 After that, his visits to Joshua's became less fre- 
 quent. 
 
 It was a bright day in March one of those which 
 almost redeem the reputation of that desperado of a 
 month. Eph was leaning on his fence, looking now 
 down the bay and now to where the sun was sink- 
 ing in the marshes. He knew that all the other men 
 had gone to the town-meeting, where he had had 
 no heart to intrude himself that free democratic 
 parliament where he had often gone with his father 
 in childhood ; where the boys, rejoicing in a 
 general assembly of their own, had played ball 
 outside, while the men debated gravely within. 
 He recalled the time when he himself had so 
 proudly given his first vote for President, and how 
 his father had introduced him then to friends from 
 distant parts of the town. He remembered how 
 he had heard his father speak there, and how re- 
 spectfully everybody had listened to him. That 
 
THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 29 
 
 was in the long ago, when they had lived at the 
 great farm. And then came the thought of the 
 mortgage, and of Eliphalet's foreclosure, and 
 
 " Hallo, Eph !" 
 
 It was one of the men from whom he took fish 
 a plain-spoken, sincere little man. 
 
 " Why wa'n't you down to town-meet'n' ?" 
 
 " I was busy," said Eph. 
 
 " How'd ye like the news ?" 
 
 " What news ?" 
 
 There was never any good news for him now. 
 
 " Hain't heard who's selected town-clerk ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 Had they elected Eliphalet, and so expressed 
 their settled distrust of him, and sympathy for the 
 man whom he had injured ? 
 
 " Who's elected ?" he asked, harshly. 
 
 " You be !" said the man ; " went in flyin', all 
 hands clappin' and stompin' their feet !" 
 
 An hour later the doctor drove up, stopped, and 
 walked toward the kitchen door. As he passed 
 the window, he looked in. 
 
 Eph was lying on his face, upon the settle, as he 
 had first seen him there, his arms beneath his head. 
 
 " I will not disturb him now," said the doctor. 
 
 One breezy afternoon, in the following summer, 
 Captain Seth laid aside his easy every-day clothes, 
 and transformed himself into a stiff broadcloth 
 image, with a small silk hat and creaking boots. 
 So attired, he set out in a high open buggy, with 
 
30 THE VILLAGE CONVICT. 
 
 his wife, also in black, but with gold spectacles, to 
 the funeral of an aunt. As they pursued their jog- 
 trot journey along the Salt Hay Road, and came 
 to Ephraim Morse's cottage, they saw Susan sitting 
 in a shady little porch, at the front door, shelling 
 peas, and looking down the bay. 
 
 " How is everything, Susan ?" called out Captain 
 Seth ; " 'bout time for Eph to be gitt'n' in ?" 
 
 " Yes," she answered, nodding and smiling, and 
 pointing with a pea-pod ; " that's our boat, just 
 coming up to the wharf, with her peak down." 
 
THE DENVER EXPRESS. 
 
 BY A. A. HAYES. 
 
 I. 
 
 ANY one who has seen an outward-bound 
 clipper ship getting under way and heard the 
 " shanty-songs " sung by the sailors as they toiled 
 at capstan and halliards, will probably remember 
 'that rhymeless but melodious refrain 
 
 "I'm bound to see its muddy waters 
 
 Yeo ho ! that rolling river ; 
 Bound to see its muddy waters 
 Yeo ho ! the wild Missouri." 
 
 Only a happy inspiration could have impelled 
 Jack to apply the adjective " wild " to that ill- 
 behaved and disreputable river, which, tipsily bear- 
 ing its enormous burden of mud from the far 
 North-west, totters, reels, runs its tortuous course 
 for hundreds on hundreds of miles ; and which, 
 
 January^ 1884, 
 
32 THE DENVER EXPRESS. 
 
 encountering the lordly and thus far well-behaved 
 Mississippi at Alton, and forcing its company upon 
 this splendid river (as if some drunken fellow 
 should lock arms with a dignified pedestrian), con- 
 taminates it all the way to the Gulf of Mexico. 
 
 At a certain point on the banks of this river, or 
 rather as it has the habit of abandoning and 
 destroying said banks at a safe distance there- 
 from, there is a town from which a railroad takes 
 its departure for its long climb up the natural 
 incline of the Great Plains, to the base of the 
 mountains ; hence the importance to this town of 
 the large but somewhat shabby building serving as 
 terminal station. In its smoky interior, late in the 
 evening and not very long ago, a train was nearly 
 read) 7 to start. It was a train possessing a certain 
 consideration. For the benefit of a public easily 
 gulled and enamored of grandiloquent terms, it 
 was advertised as the " Denver Fast Express ;" 
 sometimes, with strange unfitness, as the " Light- 
 ning Express"; "elegant" and "palatial" cars 
 were declared to be included therein ; and its 
 departure was one of the great events of the 
 twenty-four hours, in the country round about. A 
 local poet described it in the " live " paper of the 
 town, cribbing from an old Eastern magazine and 
 passing off as original, the lines 
 
 " Again we stepped into the street, 
 
 A train came thundering by, 
 Drawn by the snorting iron steed 
 Swifter than eagles fly. 
 
THE DENVER EXPRESS. 33 
 
 Rumbled the wheels, the whistle shrieked, 
 
 Far rolled the smoky cloud, 
 Echoed the hills, the valleys shook, 
 
 The flying forests bowed." 
 
 The trainmen, on the other hand, used no fine 
 phrases. They called it simply " Number Seven- 
 teen "; and, when it started, said it had " pulled 
 out." 
 
 On the evening in question, there it stood, nearly 
 ready. Just behind the great hissing locomotive, 
 with its parabolic headlight and its coal-laden 
 tender, came the baggage, mail, and express cars ; 
 then the passenger coaches, in which the social 
 condition of the occupants seemed to be in inverse 
 ratio to their distance from the engine. First came 
 emigrants, "honest miners," "cow-boys," and 
 laborers ; Irishmen, Germans, Welshmen, Men- 
 nonites from Russia, quaint of garb and speech, 
 and Chinamen. Then came long cars full of peo- 
 ple of better station, and last the great Pullman 
 " sleepers," in which the busy black porters were 
 making up the berths for well-to-do travellers of 
 diverse nationalities and occupations. 
 
 It was a curious study for a thoughtful observer, 
 this motley crowd of human beings sinking all 
 differences of race, creed, and habits in the com- 
 mon purpose to move Westward to the mountain 
 fastnesses, the sage-brush deserts, the Golden 
 Gate. 
 
 The warning bell had sounded, and the fireman 
 leaned far out for the signal. The gong struck 
 
34 THE DENVER EXPRESS. 
 
 sharply, the conductor shouted, "All aboard," 
 and raised his hand ; the tired ticket-seller shut his 
 window, and the train moved out of the station, 
 gathered way as it cleared the outskirts of the town, 
 rounded a curve, entered on an absolutely straight 
 line, and, with one long whistle from the engine, 
 settled down to its work. Through the night 
 hours it sped on, past lonely ranches and infre- 
 quent stations, by and across shallow streams 
 fringed with cottonwood trees, over the greenish- 
 yellow buffalo grass ; near the old trail where many 
 a poor emigrant, many a bold frontiersman, many 
 a brave soldier, had laid his bones but a short time 
 before. 
 
 Familiar as they may be, there is something 
 strangely impressive about all night journeys by 
 rail ; and those forming part of an American 
 transcontinental trip are almost weird. From the 
 windows of anight-express in Europe, or the older 
 portions of the United States, one looks on houses 
 and lights, cultivated fields, fences, and hedges ; 
 and, hurled as he may be through the darkness, he 
 has a sense of companionship and semi-security. 
 Far different is it when the long train is running 
 over those two rails which, seen before night set in, 
 seemed to meet on the horizon. Within, all is as 
 if between two great seaboard cities ; the neatly 
 dressed people, the uniformed officials, the hand- 
 some fittings, the various appliances for comfort. 
 Without are now long, dreary levels, now deep and 
 wild canons, now an environment of strange and 
 
THE DENVER EXPRESS. 35 
 
 grotesque rock-formations, castles, battlements, 
 churches, statues. The antelope fleetly runs, and 
 the coyote skulks away from the track, and the 
 gray wolf howls afar off. It is for all the world, 
 to one's fancy, as if a bit of civilization, a family 
 or community, its belongings and surroundings 
 complete, were flying through regions barbarous 
 and inhospitable. 
 
 From the cab of Engine No. 32, the driver of the 
 Denver Express saw, showing faintly in the early 
 morning, the buildings grouped about the little 
 station ten miles ahead, where breakfast awaited 
 his passengers. He looked at his watch ; he had just 
 twenty minutes in which to run the distance, as he 
 had run it often before. Something, however, trav- 
 elled faster than he. From the smoky station out 
 of which the train passed the night before, along the 
 slender wire stretched on rough poles at the side 
 of the track, a spark of that mysterious something 
 which we call electricity flashed at the moment he 
 returned the watch to his pocket ; and in five 
 minutes' time, the station-master came out on the 
 platform, a little more thoughtful than his wont, 
 and looked eastward for the smoke of the train. 
 With but three of the passengers in that train has 
 this tale specially to do, and they were all in the 
 new and comfortable Pullman ' ' City of Cheyenne. ' ' 
 One was a tall, well-made man of about thirty 
 blond, blue-eyed, bearded, straight, sinewy, 
 alert. Of all in the train he seemed the most thor- 
 oughly at home, and the respectful greeting of the 
 
36 THE DENVER EXPRESS. 
 
 conductor, as he passed through the car, marked 
 him as an officer of the road. Such was he Henry 
 Sinclair, assistant engineer, quite famed on the 
 line, high in favor with the directors, and a rising 
 man in all ways. It was known on the road that 
 he was expected in Denver, and there were rumors 
 that he was to organize the parties for the survey 
 of an important " extension." Beside him sat his 
 pretty young wife. She was a New Yorker one 
 could tell at first glance from the feather of her 
 little bonnet, matching the gray travelling dress, 
 to the tips of her dainty boots ; and one, too, at 
 whom old Fifth Avenue promenaders would have 
 turned to look. She had a charming figure, brown 
 hair, hazel eyes, and an expression at once kind, 
 intelligent, and spirited. She had cheerfully left a 
 luxurious home to follow the young engineer's fort- 
 unes ; and it was well known that those fortunes 
 had been materially advanced by her tact and 
 cleverness. 
 
 The third passenger in question had just been 
 in conversation with Sinclair, and the latter was 
 telling his wife of their curious meeting. Entering 
 the toilet-room at the rear of the car, he said, he 
 had begun his ablutions by the side of another 
 man, and it was as they were sluicing their faces 
 with water that he heard the cry : 
 
 " Why, Major, is that you ? Just to think of 
 meeting you here !" 
 
 A man of about twenty-eight years of age, slight, 
 muscular, wiry, had seized his wet hand and was 
 
THE DENVER EXPRESS. 37 
 
 wringing it. He had black eyes, keen and bright, 
 swarthy complexion, black hair and mustache. 
 A keen observer might have seen about him some 
 signs of a jeunesse orageuse, but his manner was 
 frank and pleasing. Sinclair looked him in the 
 face, puzzled for a moment. 
 
 " Don't you remember Foster ?" asked the man. 
 
 " Of course I do," replied Sinclair. " For a 
 moment I could not place you. Where have you 
 been and what have you been doing ?" 
 
 " Oh," replied Foster, laughing, " I've braced 
 up and turned over a new leaf. I'm a respectable 
 member of society, have a place in the express 
 company, and am going to Denver to take charge." 
 
 " I am very glad to hear it, and you must tell 
 me your story when we have had our breakfast." 
 
 The pretty young woman was just about to ask 
 who Foster was, when the speed of the train slack- 
 ened, and the brakeman opened the door of the car 
 and cried out in stentorian tones : 
 
 " Pawnee Junction ; twenty minutes for refresh- 
 ments !" 
 
 II. 
 
 When the celebrated Rocky Mountain gold ex- 
 citement broke out, more than twenty years ago, 
 and people painted " PIKE'S PEAK OR BUST" on the 
 
38 THE DENVER EXPRESS. 
 
 canvas covers of their wagons and started for the 
 diggings, they established a " trail " or " trace " 
 leading in a south-westerly direction from the old 
 one to California. 
 
 At a certain point on this trail a frontiersman 
 named Barker built a forlorn ranch-house and cor- 
 ral, and offered what is conventionally called " en- 
 tertainment for man and beast." 
 
 For years he lived there, dividing his time 
 between fighting the Indians and feeding the pass- 
 ing emigrants and their stock. Then the first rail- 
 road to Denver was built, taking another route 
 from the Missouri, and Barker's occupation was 
 gone. He retired with his gains to St. Louis and 
 lived in comfort. 
 
 Years passed on, and the " extension" over which 
 our train is to pass was planned. The old pioneers 
 were excellent natural engineers, and their succes- 
 sors could find no better route than they had chosen. 
 Thus it was that " Barker's" became, during the 
 construction period, an important point, and the 
 frontiersman's name came to figure on time-tables. 
 Meanwhile the place passed through a process of 
 evolution which would have delighted Darwin. In 
 the party of engineers which first camped there 
 was Sinclair, and it was by his advice that the 
 contractors selected it for division headquarters. 
 Then came drinking " saloons," and gambling- 
 houses alike the inevitable concomitant and the 
 bane of Western settlements ; then scattered houses 
 and shops, and a shabby so-called hotel, in which 
 
THE DENVER EXPRESS. 39 
 
 the letting of miserable rooms (divided from each 
 other by canvas partitions) was wholly subordi- 
 nated to the business of the bar. Before long, 
 Barker's had acquired a worse reputation than even 
 other towns of its type, the abnormal and uncanny 
 aggregations of squalor and vice which dotted the 
 plains in those days ; and it was at its worst when 
 Sinclair returned thither and took up his quar- 
 ters in the engineers' building. The passion for 
 gambling was raging, and to pander thereto were 
 collected as choice a lot of desperadoes as ever 
 " stocked " cards or loaded dice. It came to be 
 noticed that they were on excellent terms with a 
 man called " Jeff " Johnson, who was lessee of the 
 hotel ; and to be suspected that said Johnson, in 
 local parlance, " stood in with " them. With this 
 man had come to Barker's his daughter Sarah, 
 commonly known as " Sally," a handsome girl 
 with a straight, lithe figure, fine features, reddish 
 auburn hair, and dark blue eyes. It is but fair to 
 say that even the " toughs" of a place like Barker's 
 show some respect for the other sex, and Miss 
 Sally's case was no exception to the rule. The 
 male population admired her ; they said she " put 
 on heaps of style"; but none of them had seemed 
 to make any progress in her good graces. 
 
 On a pleasant afternoon, just after the track had 
 been laid some miles west of Barker's, and con 
 struction trains were running with some regularity 
 to and from the end thereof, Sinclair sat on the 
 rude veranda of the engineers' quarters, smoking 
 
40 THE DENVER EXPRESS. 
 
 his well-colored meerschaum and looking at the 
 sunset. The atmosphere had been so clear during 
 the day that glimpses were had of Long's and 
 Pike's peaks, and as the young engineer gazed at 
 the gorgeous cloud-display he was thinking of the 
 miners' quaint and pathetic idea that the dead " go 
 over the Range." 
 
 "Nice-looking, ain't it, Major?" asked a voice 
 at his elbow, and he turned to see one of the con- 
 tractors' officials taking a seat near him. 
 
 " More than nice-looking, to my mind, Sam," 
 he replied. " What is the news to-day ?" 
 
 " Nothin' much. There's a sight of talk about 
 the doin'sof them faro an' keno sharps. The boys 
 is gittin' kind o' riled, fur they allow the game 
 ain't on the square wuth a cent. Some of 'em 
 down to the tie-camp wuz a-talkin' about a vigi- 
 lance committee, an' I wouldn't be surprised ef they 
 meant business. Hev yer heard about the young 
 feller that come in a week ago from Laramie an' 
 set up a new faro-bank ?" 
 
 " No. What about him ?" 
 
 " Wa'al, yer see he's a feller thet's got a lot of 
 sand an' ain't afeared of nobody, an' he's allowed 
 to hev the deal to his place on the square every 
 time. Accordin' to my idee, gamblin's about the 
 wust racket a feller kin work, but it takes all sorts 
 of men to make a world, an' ef the boys is bound 
 to hev a game, I calkilate they'd like to patronize 
 his bank. Thet's made the old crowd mighty mad, 
 an' they're a-talkin' about puttin' up a job of 
 
THE DENVER EXPRESS. 41 
 
 cheatin' on him an' then stringin' him up. Be- 
 sides, I kind o' think there's some cussed jealousy 
 on another lay as comes in. Yer see the young 
 feller Cyrus Foster's his name is sweet on thet 
 gal of Jeff Johnson's. Jeff wuz to Laramie before 
 he come here, an' Foster knowed Sally up thar. I 
 allow he moved here to see her. Hello ! Ef thar 
 they ain't a comin' now." 
 
 Down a path leading from the town, past the rail- 
 road buildings, and well on the prairie, Sinclair 
 saw the girl walking with the " young feller." 
 He was talking earnestly to her, and her eyes were 
 cast down. She looked pretty and, in a way, 
 graceful ; and there was in her attire a noticeable 
 attempt at neatness, and a faint reminiscence of 
 by-gone fashions. A smile came to Sinclair's lips 
 as he thought of a couple walking up Fifth Avenue 
 during his leave of absence not many months 
 before, and of a letter, many times read, lying at 
 that moment in his breast-pocket. 
 
 " Papa's bark is worse than his bite," ran one 
 of its sentences. " Of course he does not like the 
 idea of my leaving him and going away to such 
 dreadful and remote places as Denver and Omaha, 
 and I don't know what else ; but he will not 
 oppose me in the end, and when you come on 
 again ' ' 
 
 " By thunder !" exclaimed Sam ; " ef thar ain't 
 one of them cussed sharps a-watchin' 'em." 
 
 Sure enough, a rough-looking fellow, his hat 
 pulled over his eyes, half concealed behind a pile 
 
42 THE DENVER EXPRESS. 
 
 of lumber, was casting a sinister glance toward the 
 pair. 
 
 " The gal's well enough," continued Sam ; 
 " but I don't take a cent's wuth of stock in thet 
 thar father of her'n. He's in with them sharps, 
 sure pop, an' it don't suit his book to hev Foster 
 hangin' round. It's ten to one he sent that 
 cuss to watch 'em. Wa'al, they're a queer lot, an' 
 I'm afeared thar's plenty of trouble ahead among 
 'em. Good luck to you, Major," and he pushed 
 back his chair and walked away. 
 
 After breakfast next morning, when Sinclair was 
 sitting at the table in his office, busy with maps and 
 plans, the door was thrown open, and Foster, pant- 
 ing for breath, ran in. 
 
 " Major Sinclair," he said, speaking with diffi- 
 culty, " I've no claim on you, but I ask you to 
 protect me. The other gamblers are going to hang 
 me. They are more than ten to one. They will 
 track me here, and unless you harbor me, I'm a 
 dead man. 
 
 Sinclair rose from his chair in a second and 
 walked to the window. A party of men were 
 approaching the building. He turned to Fos- 
 ter : 
 
 " I do not like your trade," said he ; " but I will 
 not see you murdered if I can help it. You are 
 welcome here." Foster said " Thank you," stood 
 still a moment, and then began to pace the room, 
 rapidly clinching his hands, his whole frame 
 quivering, his eyes flashing fire " for all the 
 
THE DENVER EXPRESS. 43 
 
 world," Sinclair said, in telling the story after- 
 ward, " like a fierce caged tiger." 
 
 " My God !" he muttered, with concentrated 
 intensity, " to be trapped, TRAPPED like this !" 
 
 Sinclair stepped quickly to the door of his bed- 
 room, and motioned Foster to enter. Then there 
 came a knock at the outer door, and he opened it 
 and stood on the threshold, erect and firm. Half 
 a dozen " toughs" faced him. 
 
 " Major," said their spokesman, " we want that 
 man." 
 
 " You cannot have him, boys." 
 
 " Major, we're a-goin' to take him." 
 
 "You had better not try," said Sinclair, with 
 perfect ease and self-possession, and in a pleasant 
 voice. " I have given him shelter, and you can 
 only get him over my dead body. Of course you 
 can kill me, but you won't do even that without 
 one or two of you going down ; and then you 
 know perfectly well, boys, what will happen. You 
 know that if you lay your finger on a railroad man 
 it's all up with you. There are five hundred men 
 in the tie-camp, not five miles away, and you don't 
 need to be told that in less than one hour after they 
 get word there won't be a piece of one of you big 
 enough to bury." 
 
 The men made no reply. They looked him 
 straight in the eyes for a moment. Had they seen 
 a sign of flinching they might have risked the 
 issue, but there was none. With muttered curses, 
 they slunk away. Sinclair shut and bolted the 
 
44 THE DENVER EXPRESS. 
 
 door, then opened the one leading to the bed- 
 room. 
 
 " Foster," he said, " the train will pass here in 
 half an hour. Have you money enough ?" 
 
 " Plenty, Major." 
 
 " Very well ; keep perfectly quiet, and I will try 
 to get you safely off." He went to an adjoining 
 room and called Sam, the contractor's man. He 
 took in the situation at a glance. 
 
 " Wa'al, Foster," said he, " kind o' ' close call ' 
 for yer, warn't it ? Guess yer'd better be gittin' 
 up an' gittin' pretty lively. The train boys will 
 take yer through, an' yer kin come back when this 
 racket's worked out." 
 
 Sinclair glanced at his watch, then he walked to 
 the window and looked out. On a small mesa, or 
 elevated-plateau, commanding the path to the rail- 
 road, he saw a number of men with rifles. 
 
 ;< Just as I expected," said he. " Sam, ask one 
 of the boys to go down to the track and, when the 
 train arrives, tell the conductor to come here." 
 
 In a few minutes the whistle was heard, and the 
 conductor entered the building. Receiving his 
 instructions, he returned, and immediately on 
 engine, tender, and platform appeared the train- 
 men, with their rifles covering the group on the 
 bluff. Sinclair put on his hat. 
 
 " Now, Foster," said he, " we have no time to 
 lose. Take Sam's arm and mine, and walk 
 between us." 
 
 The trio left the building and walked deliberately 
 
THE DENVER EXPRESS. 45 
 
 to the railroad. Not a word was spoken. Besides 
 the men in sight on the train, two behind the 
 window-blinds of the one passenger coach, and 
 unseen, kept their fingers on the triggers of their 
 repeating carbines. It seemed a long time, 
 counted by anxious seconds, until Foster was safe 
 in the coach. 
 
 " All ready, conductor," said Sinclair. " Now, 
 Foster, good-by. I am not good at lecturing, but 
 if I were you, I would make this the turning-point 
 in my life." 
 
 Foster was much moved. 
 
 ''I will do it, Major," said he; "and I shall 
 never forget what you have done for me to-day. I 
 am sure we shall meet again." 
 
 With another shriek from the whistle the train 
 started. Sinclair and Sam saw the men quietly 
 returning the firearms to their places as it gathered 
 way. Then they walked back to their quarters. 
 The men on the mesa, balked of their purpose, had 
 withdrawn. 
 
 Sam accompanied Sinclair to his door, and then 
 sententiously remarked : " Major, I think I'll light 
 out and find some of the boys. You ain't got no 
 call to know anything about it, but I allow it's 
 about time them cusses was bounced." 
 
 Three nights after this, a powerful party of 
 Vigilantes, stern and inexorable, made a raid on all 
 the gambling dens, broke the tables and apparatus, 
 and conducted the men to a distance from the 
 town, where they left them with an emphatic and 
 
46 THE DENVER EXPRESS. 
 
 concise warning as to the consequences of any 
 attempt to return. An exception was made in Jeff 
 Johnson's case but only for the sake of his 
 daughter for it was found that many a " little 
 game " had been carried on in his house. 
 
 Erelong he found it convenient to sell his busi- 
 ness and retire to a town some miles to the east- 
 ward, where the railroad influence was not as 
 strong as at Barker's. At about this time, Sin- 
 clair made his arrangements to go to New York, 
 with the pleasant prospect of marrying the young 
 lady in Fifth Avenue. In due time he arrived at 
 Barker's with his young and charming wife and 
 remained for some days. The changes were 
 astounding. Common-place respectability had 
 replaced abnormal lawlessness. A neat station 
 stood where had been the rough contractor's build- 
 ings. At a new " Windsor" (or was it " Bruns- 
 wick "?) the performance of the kitchen contrasted 
 sadly (alas ! how common is such contrast in these 
 regions) with the promise of the menu. There was 
 a tawdry theatre yclept " Academy of Music," and 
 there was not much to choose in the way of ugli- 
 ness between two " meeting-houses." 
 
 " Upon my word, my dear," said Sinclair to his 
 wife, " I ought to be ashamed to say it, but I 
 prefer Barker's au naturel" 
 
 One evening, just before the young people left 
 the town, and as Mrs. Sinclair sat alone in her 
 room, the frowsy waitress announced "a lady," 
 and was requested to bid her enter. A woman 
 
THE DENVER EXPRESS. 47 
 
 came with timid mien into the room, sat down, as 
 invited, and removed her veil. Of course the 
 young bride had never known Sally Johnson, the 
 whilom belle of Barker's, but her husband would 
 have noticed at a glance how greatly she was 
 changed from the girl who walked with Foster past 
 the engineers' quarters. It would be hard to find 
 a more striking contrast than was presented by the 
 two women as they sat facing each other : the one 
 in the flush of health and beauty, calm, sweet, self- 
 possessed ; the other still retaining some of the 
 shabby finery of old days, but pale and haggard, 
 with black rings under her eyes, and a pathetic air 
 of humiliation. 
 
 " Mrs. Sinclair," she hurriedly began, " you do 
 not know me, nor the like of me. I've got no 
 right to speak to you, but I couldn't help it. Oh ! 
 please believe me, I am not real downright bad. 
 I'm Sally Johnson, daughter of a man whom they 
 drove out of the town. My mother died when I 
 was little, and I never had a show ; and folks think 
 because I live with my father, and he makes me 
 know the crowd he travels with, that I must be 
 in with them, and be of their sort. I never had a 
 woman speak a kind word to me, and I've had so 
 much trouble that I'm just drove wild, and like to 
 kill myself ; and then I was at the station when you 
 came in, and I saw your sweet face and the kind look 
 in your eyes, and it came in my heart that I'd 
 speak to you if I died for it." She leaned eagerly 
 forward, her hands nervously closing on the back 
 
48 THE DENVER EXPRESS. 
 
 of a chair. " I suppose your husband never told 
 you of me ; like enough he never knew me ; but 
 I'll never forget him as long as I live. When he 
 was here before, there was a young man " here a 
 faint color came in the wan cheeks " who was 
 fond of me, and I thought the world of him, and 
 my father was down on him, and the men that 
 father was in with wanted to kill him ; and Mr. 
 Sinclair saved his life. He's gone away, and I've 
 waited and waited for him to come back and 
 perhaps I'll never see him again. But oh ! dear 
 lady, I'll never forget what your husband did. 
 He's a good man, and he deserves the love of a dear 
 good woman like you, and if I dared, I'd pray for 
 you both, night and day." 
 
 She stopped suddenly and sank back in her seat, 
 pale as before, and as if frightened by her own 
 emotion. Mrs. Sinclair had listened with sympathy 
 and increasing interest. 
 
 " My poor girl," she said, speaking tenderly (she 
 had a lovely, soft voice) and with slightly height- 
 ened color, " I am delighted that you came to see 
 me, and that my husband was able to help you. 
 Tell me, can we not do more for you ? I do not 
 for one moment believe you can be happy with 
 your present surroundings. Can we not assist you 
 to leave them ?" 
 
 The girl rose, sadly shaking her head. " I 
 thank you for your words," she said. "I don't 
 suppose I'll ever see you again, but I'll say, God 
 bless you !" 
 
THE DENVER EXPRESS. 49 
 
 She caught Mrs. Sinclair's hand, pressed it to 
 her lips, and was gone. 
 
 Sinclair found his wife very thoughtful when he 
 came home, and he listened with much interest to 
 her story 
 
 " Poor girl !" said he ; " Foster is the man to 
 help her. I wonder where he is ? I must inquire 
 about him." 
 
 The next day they proceeded on their way to San 
 Francisco, and matters drifted on at Barker's much 
 as before. Johnson had, after an absence of some 
 months, come back and lived without molestation, 
 amid the shifting population. Now and then, too, 
 some of the older residents fancied they recog- 
 nized, under slouched sombreros, the faces of 
 some of his former " crowd " about the " Ranch- 
 man's Home," as his gaudy saloon was 
 called. 
 
 Late on the very evening on which this story 
 opens, and they had been "making up" the 
 Denver Express in the train-house on the Missouri, 
 " Jim " Watkins, agent and telegrapher at Barker's, 
 was sitting in his little office, communicating with 
 the station rooms by the ticket window. Jim was 
 a cool, silent, efficient man, and not much given to 
 talk about such episodes in his past life as the 
 " wiping out " by Indians of the construction party 
 to which he belonged, and his own rescue by the 
 scouts. He was smoking an old and favorite pipe, 
 and talking with one of " the boys " whose head 
 appeared at the wicket. On a seat in the station 
 
50 THE DENVER EXPRESS. 
 
 sat a woman in a black dress and veil, apparently 
 waiting for a train. 
 
 " Got a heap of letters and telegrams there, ain't 
 year, Jim ?" remarked the man at the window. 
 
 "Yes," replied Jim; "they're for Engineer 
 Sinclair, to be delivered to him when he passes 
 through here. He left on No. 17, to-night." The 
 inquirer did not notice the sharp start of the 
 woman near him. 
 
 " Is that good-lookin' wife of his'n a comin' with 
 him ?" asked he. 
 
 " Yes, there's letters for her, too." 
 
 " Well, good-night, Jim. See yer later," and 
 he went out. The woman suddenly rose and ran 
 to the window. 
 
 " Mr Watkins," cried she, "can I see you for a 
 few moments, where no one can interrupt us ? It's 
 a matter of life and death." She clutched the sill 
 with her thin hands, and her voice trembled. 
 Watkins recognized Sally Johnson in a moment. 
 He unbolted a door, motioned her to enter, closed 
 and again bolted it, and also closed the ticket 
 window. Then he pointed to a chair, and the girl 
 sat down and leaned eagerly forward. 
 
 " If they knew I was here," she said in a hoarse 
 whisper, " my life wouldn't be safe five minutes. 
 I was waiting to tell you a terrible story, and then 
 I heard who was on the train due here to-morrow 
 night. Mr. Watkins, don't, for God's sake, ask 
 me how I found out, but I hope to die if I ain't 
 telling you the living truth ! They're going to 
 
THE DENVER EXPRESS. 51 
 
 wreck that train No. 17 at Dead Man's Crossing, 
 fifteen miles east, and rob the passengers and the 
 express car. It's the worst gang in the country, 
 Perry's. They're going to throw the train off the 
 track, the passengers will be maimed and killed, 
 and Mr. Sinclair and his wife on the cars ! Oh ! 
 My God ! Mr Watkins, send them warning !" 
 
 She stood upright, her face deadly pale, her 
 hands clasped. Watkins walked deliberately to 
 the railroad map which hung on the wall and 
 scanned it. Then he resumed his seat, laid his 
 pipe down, fixed his eyes on the girl's face, and 
 began to question her. At the same time his right 
 hand, with which he had held the pipe, found its 
 way to the telegraph key. None but an expert 
 could have distinguished any change in the clicking 
 of the instrument, which had been almost in- 
 cessant ; but Watkins had " called " the head 
 office on the Missouri. In two minutes the 
 " sounder " rattled out " All right! What is it?" 
 
 Watkins went on with his questions, his eyes still 
 fixed on the poor girl's face, and all the time his 
 fingers, as it were, playing with the key. If he 
 were imperturbable, so was not a man sitting at a 
 receiving instrument nearly five hundred miles 
 away. He had " taken " but a few words when he 
 jumped from his chair and cried : 
 
 " Shut that door, and call the superintendent and 
 be quick ! Charley, brace up lively and come 
 and write this out !" With his wonderful electric 
 pen, the handle several hundred of miles long, 
 
$2 THE DENVER EXPRESS. 
 
 Watkins, unknown to his interlocutor, was print- 
 ing in the Morse alphabet this startling message : 
 
 " Inform'n rec'd. Perry gang going to throw No. 17 off 
 track near xth mile-post, this division, about nine to-morrow 
 (Thursday) night, kill passengers, and rob express and mail. 
 Am alone here. No chance to verify story, but believe it to be 
 on square. Better make arrangements from your end to block 
 game. No Sheriff here now. Answer." 
 
 The superintendent, responding to the hasty 
 summons, heard the message before the clerk had 
 time to write it out. His lips were closely com- 
 pressed as he put his own hand on the key and 
 sent these laconic sentences: " O. K. Keep per- 
 fectly dark. Will manage from this end. ' ' 
 
 Watkins, at Barker's, rose from his seat, opened 
 the door a little way, saw that the station was 
 empty, and then said to the girl, brusquely, but 
 kindly : 
 
 " Sally, you've done the square thing, and saved 
 that train. I'll take care that you don't suffer and 
 that you get well paid. Now come home with me, 
 and my wife will look out for you." 
 
 " Oh ! no," cried the girl, shrinking back, " I 
 must run away. You're mighty kind, but I daren't 
 go with you." Detecting a shade of doubt in his 
 eye, she added : " Don't be afeared ; I'll die before 
 they'll know I've given them away to you !" and 
 she disappeared in the darkness. 
 
 At the other end of the wire, the superintendent 
 had quietly impressed secrecy on his operator and 
 
THE DENVER EXPRESS. 53 
 
 clerk, ordered his fast mare harnessed, and gone 
 to his private office. 
 
 " Read that !" said he to his secretary. " It 
 was about time for some trouble of this kind, and 
 now I'm going to let Uncle Sam take care of his 
 mails. If I don't get to the reservation before the 
 General's turned in, I shall have to wake him up. 
 Wait for me, please." 
 
 They gray mare made the six miles to the 
 military reservation in just half an hour. The 
 General was smoking his last cigar, and was alert 
 in an instant ; and before the superintendent had 
 finished the jorum of " hot Scotch " hospitably 
 tendered, the orders had gone by wire to the com- 
 manding officer at Fort , some distance east of 
 
 Barker's, and been duly acknowledged. 
 
 Returning to the station, the superintendent re- 
 marked to the waiting secretary : 
 
 " The General's all right. Of course we can't 
 tell that this is not a sell ; but if those Perry 
 hounds mean business they'll get all the fight they 
 want ; and if they've got any souls which I 
 doubt may the Lord have mercy on them !" 
 
 He prepared several despatches, two of which 
 were as follows : 
 
 "MR. HENRY SINCLAIR: 
 
 " On No. 17, Pawnee Junction : 
 
 This telegram your authority to take charge of Tain on which 
 you are, and demand obedience of all officials and trainmen on 
 road. Please do so, and act in accordance with information 
 wired station agent at Pawnee Junction." 
 
54 THE DENVER EXPRESS. 
 
 To the Station Agent 
 
 " Reported Perry gang will try wreck and rob No. 17 near 
 xth mile-post. Denver Division, about nine Thursday night. 
 
 Troops will await train at Fort . Car ordered ready for 
 
 them. Keep everything secret, and act in accordance with 
 orders of Mr. Sinclair." 
 
 " It's worth about ten thousand dollars," sen- 
 tentiously remarked he, " that Sinclair's on that 
 train. He's got both sand and brains. Good- 
 night," and he went to bed and slept the sleep of 
 the just. 
 
 III. 
 
 The sun never shone more brightly and the air 
 was never more clear and bracing than when Sin- 
 clair helped his wife off the train at Pawnee Junc- 
 tion. The station-master's face fell as he saw the 
 lady, but he saluted the engineer with as easy an air 
 as he could assume, and watched for an opportun- 
 ity to speak to him alone. Sinclair read the de- 
 spatches with an unmoved countenance, and after 
 a few minutes' reflection simply said : " All right. 
 Be sure to keep the matter perfectly quiet." At 
 breakfast he was distrait -so much so that his wife 
 asked him what was the matter, Taking her aside, 
 he at once showed her the telegrams. 
 
THE DENVER EXPRESS. 55 
 
 "You see my duty," he said. "My only 
 thought is about you, my dear child. Will you 
 stay here ?" 
 
 She simply replied, looking into his face without 
 a tremor : 
 
 "My place is with you." Then the conductor 
 called "All aboard," and the train once more 
 started. 
 
 Sinclair asked Foster to join him in the smoking- 
 compartment and tell him the promised story, 
 which the latter did. His rescue at Barker's, he 
 frankly and gratefully said, had been the turning 
 point in his life. In brief, he had "sworn-off" 
 from gambling and drinking, had found honest 
 employment, and was doing well. 
 
 " I've two things to do now, Major," he added ; 
 " first, I must show my gratitude, to you ; and 
 next " he hesitated a little " I want to find that 
 poor girl that I left behind at Barker's. She was 
 engaged to marry me, and when I came to think 
 of it, and what a life I'd have made her lead, I 
 hadn't the heart till now to look for her ; but, 
 seeing I'm on the right track, I'm going to find 
 her, and get her to come with me. Her father's 
 
 a old scoundrel, but that ain't her fault, and I 
 
 ain't going to marry him." 
 
 "Foster," quietly asked Sinclair, " do you know 
 the Perry gang ?" 
 
 The man's brow darkened. 
 
 " Know them ?" said he. " I know them much 
 too well. Perry is as ungodly a cutthroat as ever 
 
56 THE DENVER EXPRESS. 
 
 killed an emigrant in cold blood, and he's got in 
 his gang nearly all those hounds that tried to hang 
 me. Why do you ask, Major ?" 
 
 Sinclair handed him the despatches. " You are 
 the only man on the train to whom I have shown 
 them," said he. 
 
 Foster read them slowly, his eyes lighting up as 
 he did so. " Looks as if it was true," said he. 
 " Let me see ! Fort . Yes, that's the th in- 
 fantry. Two of their boys were killed at Sidney 
 last summer by some of the same gang, and the 
 regiment's sworn vengeance. Major, if this story's 
 on the square, that crowd's goose is cooked, and don't 
 you forget it ! I say, you must give me a hand in." 
 
 " Foster," said Sinclair, " I am going to put 
 responsibility on your shoulders. I have no doubt 
 that, if we be attacked, the soldiers will dispose 
 of the gang ; but I must take all possible precau- 
 tions for the safety of the passengers. We must 
 not alarm them. They can be made to think that 
 the troops are going on a scout, and only a certain 
 number of resolute men need be told of what we 
 expect. Can you, late this afternoon, go through 
 the cars, and pick them out ? I will then put you 
 in charge of the passenger cars, and you can post 
 your men on the platforms to act in case of need. 
 My place will be ahead." 
 
 " Major, you can depend on me," was Foster's 
 reply. " I'll go through the train and have my eye 
 on some boys of the right sort, and that's got their 
 shooting-irons with them." 
 
THE DENVER EXPRESS. 57 
 
 Through the hours of that day on rolled the train, 
 still over the crisp buffalo grass, across the well- 
 worn buffalo trails, past the prairie-dog villages. 
 The passengers chatted, dozed, played cards, read, 
 all unconscious, with the exception of three, of the 
 coming conflict between the good and the evil 
 forces bearing on their fate ; of the fell preparations 
 making for their disaster ; of the grim preparations 
 making to avert such disaster ; of all of which the 
 little wires alongside of them had been talking back 
 and forth. Watkins had telegraphed that he still 
 saw no reason to doubt the good faith of his warn- 
 ing, and Sinclair had reported his receipt of 
 authority and his acceptance thereof. Meanwhile, 
 also, there had been set in motion a measure of 
 that power to which appeal is so reluctantly made 
 
 in time of peace. At Fort , a lonely post on 
 
 the plains, the orders had that morning been issued 
 for twenty men under Lieutenant Halsey to parade 
 at 4 P.M., with overcoats, two days' rations, and 
 ball cartridges ; also for Assistant Surgeon Kesler 
 to report for duty with the party. Orders as to 
 destination were communicated direct to the lieu- 
 tenant from the post commander, and on the 
 minute the little column moved, taking the road to 
 the station. The regiment from which it came 
 had been in active service among the Indians on 
 the frontier for a long time, and the officers and 
 men were tried and seasoned fighters. Lieutenant 
 Halsey had been well known at the West" Point 
 balls as the "leader of the german." From the 
 
58 THE DENVER EXPRESS. 
 
 last of these balls he had gone straight to the field, 
 and three years had given him an enviable reputa- 
 tion for sang froid and determined bravery. He 
 looked every inch the soldier as he walked along 
 the trail, his cloak thrown back and his sword 
 tucked under his arm. The doctor, who carried a 
 Modoc bullet in some inaccessible part of his 
 scarred body, growled good-naturedly at the need 
 of walking, and the men, enveloped in their army- 
 blue overcoats, marched easily by fours. Reaching 
 the station, the lieutenant called the agent aside, 
 and with him inspected, on a siding, a long plat- 
 form cr on which benches had been placed and 
 secur ... Then he took his seat in the station and 
 qu* ay waited, occasionally twisting his long 
 blond mustache. The doctor took a cigar with 
 the agent, and the men walked about or sat on the 
 edge of the platform. One of them, who obtained 
 a surreptitious glance at his silent commander, told 
 his companions that there was trouble ahead for 
 somebody. 
 
 " That's just the way the leftenant looked, boys/' 
 said he, " when we was laying for them Apaches 
 that raided Jones's Ranch and killed the women 
 and little children." 
 
 In a short time the officer looked at his watch, 
 formed his men, and directed them to take their 
 places on the seats of the car. They had hardly 
 done so, when the whistle of the approaching train 
 was heard. When it came up, the conductor, who 
 had his instructions from Sinclair, had the engine 
 
THE DENVER EXPRESS. 59 
 
 detached and backed on the siding for the soldiers' 
 car, which thus came between it and the foremost 
 baggage-car^wheri the train was again made up. 
 As arranged, it was announced that the troops 
 were to be taken a certain distance to join a scout- 
 ing party, and the curiosity of the passengers was 
 but slightly excited. The soldiers sat quietly in 
 their seats, their repeating rifles held between their 
 knees, and the officer in front. Sinclair joined the 
 latter, and had a few words with him as the train 
 moved on. A little later, when the stars were 
 shining brightly overhead, they passed into the 
 express-car, and sent for the conductor and other 
 trainmen, and for Foster. In a few words Sinclair 
 explained the position of affairs. His statement 
 was received with perfect coolness, and the men 
 only asked what they were to do. 
 
 " I hope, boys," said Sinclair, " that we are going 
 to put this gang to-night where they will make 
 no more trouble. Lieutenant Halsey will bear the 
 brunt of the fight, and it only remains for you to 
 stand by the interests committed to your care. 
 Mr. Express Agent, what help do you want ?" 
 The person addressed, a good-natured giant, 
 girded with a cartridge belt, smiled as he re- 
 plied : 
 
 " Well, sir, I'm wearing a watch which the com- 
 pany gave me for standing off the James gang in 
 Missouri for half an hour, when we hadn't the 
 ghost of a soldier about. I'll take the contract, 
 and welcome, to hold this fort alone." 
 
60 THE DENVER EXPRESS. 
 
 "Very well," said Sinclair. "Foster, what 
 progress have you made ?" 
 
 " Major, I've got ten or fifteen as good men as 
 ever drew a bead, and just red-hot for a fight." 
 
 " That will do very well. Conductor, give the 
 trainmen the rifles from the baggage-car and let 
 them act under Mr. Foster. Now, boys, I am sure 
 you will do your duty. That is all." 
 
 From the next station Sinclair telegraphed " All 
 ready " to the superintendent, who was pacing his 
 office in much suspense. Then he said a few words 
 to his brave but anxious wife, and walked to the 
 rear platform. On it were several armed men, who 
 bade him good-evening, and asked " when the fun 
 was going to begin." Walking through the train, 
 he found each platform similarly occupied, and 
 Foster going from one to the other. The latter 
 whispered as he passed him : 
 
 " Major, I found Arizona Joe, the scout, in the 
 smokin'-car, and he's on the front platform. That 
 lets me out, and although I know as well as you 
 that there ain't any danger about that rear sleeper 
 where the madam is, I ain't a-going to be far off 
 from her." Sinclair shook him by the hand ; then 
 he looked at his watch. It was half-past eight. 
 He passed throught the baggage and express cars, 
 finding in the latter the agent sitting behind his 
 safe, on which lay two large revolvers On the 
 platform-car he found the soldiers and their com- 
 mander, sitting silent and unconcerned as before. 
 When Sinclair reached the latter and nodded, he 
 
THE DENVER EXPRESS. 6t 
 
 rose and faced the men, and his fine voice was 
 clearly heard above the rattle of the train. 
 
 "Company, 'ten//'^/" The soldiers straight- 
 ened themselves in a second. 
 
 " With ball cartridge, load!" It was done with 
 the precision of a machine. Then the lieutenant 
 spoke, in the same clear, crisp tones that the troops 
 had heard in more than one fierce battle. 
 
 " Men," said he, " in a few minutes the Perry 
 gang, which you will remember, are going to try 
 to run this train off the track, wound and kill the 
 passengers, and rob the cars and the United States 
 mail. It is our business to prevent them. Ser- 
 geant Wilson" (a gray-bearded non-commissioned 
 officer stood up and saluted), " I am going on the 
 engine. See that my orders are repeated. Now, 
 men, aim low, and don't waste any shots." He 
 and Sinclair climbed over the tender and spoke to 
 the engine-driver. 
 
 "How are the air-brakes working?" asked 
 Sinclair. 
 
 " First-rate." 
 
 " Then, if you slow down now, you could stop 
 the train in a third of her length, couldn't you ?" 
 
 * ' Easy, if you don't mind being shaken up a bit. ' ' 
 
 " That is good. How is the country about the 
 xth mile-post ?" 
 
 " Dead level, and smooth." 
 
 " Good again. Now, Lieutenant Halsey, this is 
 a splendid head-light, and we can see a long way 
 with my night glass. I will have a " 
 
62 THE DENVER EXPRESS. 
 
 " 2d mile-post just passed/' interrupted the 
 engine-driver. 
 
 " Only one more to pass, then, before we ought 
 to strike them. Now, lieutenant, I undertake to 
 stop the train within a very short distance of the 
 gang. They will be on both sides of the track, no 
 doubt ; and the ground, as you hear, is quite level. 
 You will best know what to do." 
 
 The officer stepped back. " Sergeant," called 
 he, " do you hear me plainly ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 <c Have the men fix bayonets. When the train 
 stops, and I wave my sword, let half jump off each 
 side, run up quickly, and form line abreast of the 
 engine not ahead." 
 
 "Jack," said Sinclair to the engine-driver, "is 
 your hand steady?" The man held it up with a 
 smile. " Good. Now, stand by your throttle and 
 your air-brake. Lieutenant, better warn the men 
 to hold on tight, and tell the sergeant to pass the 
 word to the boys on the platforms, or they will be 
 knocked off by the sudden stop. Now for a look 
 ahead !" and he brought the binocular to his eyes. 
 
 The great parabolic head-light illuminated the 
 track a long way in advance, all behind it being of 
 course in darkness. Suddenly Sinclair cried out : 
 
 " The fools have a light there, as I am a living 
 man ; and there is a little red one near us. What 
 can that be ? All ready, Jack ! By heavens ! they 
 have taken up two rails. Now, hold on, all! STOP 
 HER ! !" 
 
THE DENVER EXPRESS. 63 
 
 The engine-driver shut his throttle-valve with a 
 jerk. Then, holding hard by it, he sharply turned 
 a brass handle. There was a fearful jolt a grating 
 and the train's way was checked. The lieuten- 
 ant, standing sidewise, had drawn his sword. He 
 waved it, and almost before he could get off the 
 enginje, the soldiers were up and forming, still in 
 shadow, while the bright light was thrown on a 
 body of men ahead. 
 
 " Surrender, or you are dead men !" roared the 
 officer. Curses and several shots were the reply. 
 Then came the orders, quick and sharp : 
 
 "Forward! Close up I Double-quick ! Halt 7 FIRE!" 
 
 * * * It was speedily over. Left on the car 
 with the men, the old sergeant had said : 
 
 "Boys, you hear. It's that- -Perry gang. 
 Now, don't forget Larry and Charley that they 
 murdered last year," and there had come from the 
 soldiers a sort of fierce, subdued growl '. The volley 
 was followed by a bayonet charge, and it required 
 all the officer's authority to save the lives even of 
 those who " threw up their hands." Large as the 
 gang was (outnumbering the troops), well armed 
 and desperate as they were, every one was dead, 
 wounded, or a prisoner when the men who guarded 
 the train platforms ran up. The surgeon, with pro- 
 fessional coolness, walked up to the robbers, his 
 instrument case under his arm. 
 
 " Not much for me to do here, Lieutenant," said 
 he. " That practice for Creedmoor is telling on 
 the shooting. Good thing for the gang, too. 
 
64 THE DENVER EXPRESS. 
 
 Bullets are better than rope, and a Colorado jury 
 will give them plenty of that." 
 
 Sinclair had sent a man to tell his wife that all 
 was over. Then he ordered a fire lighted, and the 
 rails relaid. The flames lit a strange scene as the 
 passengers flocked up. The lieutenant posted men 
 to keep them back. 
 
 " Is there a telegraph station not far ahead, 
 Sinclair?" asked he. "Yes? All right." He 
 drew a small pad from his pocket, and wrote a des- 
 patch to the post commander. 
 
 " Be good enough to send that for me," said he, 
 " and leave orders at Barker's for the night express 
 eastward to stop for us, and to bring a posse to 
 take care of the wounded and prisoners. And 
 now, my dear Sinclair, I suggest that you get the 
 passengers into the cars, and go on as soon as 
 those rails are spiked. When they realize the situ- 
 ation, some of them will feel precious ugly, and 
 you know we can't have any lynching." 
 
 Sinclair glanced at the rails and gave the word 
 at once to the conductor and brakemen, who began 
 vociferating, " All aboard !" Just then Foster 
 appeared, an expression of intense satisfaction 
 showing clearly on his face, in the firelight. 
 
 " Major," said he, " I didn't use to take much 
 stock in special Providence, or things being 
 ordered ; but I'm darned if I don't believe in them 
 from this day. I was bound to stay where you put 
 me, but I was uneasy, and wild to be in the scrim- 
 mage ; and, if I had been there, I wouldn't have 
 
THE DENVER EXPRESS. 65 
 
 taken notice of a little red light that wasn't much 
 behind the rear platform when we stopped. When 
 I saw there was no danger there, I ran back, and 
 what do you think I found ? There was a woman, 
 in a dead faint, and just clutching a lantern that 
 she had tied up in a red scarf, poor little thing ! 
 And, Major, it was Sally ! It was the little girl 
 that loved me out at Barker's, and has loved me 
 and waited for me ever since ! And when she 
 came to, and knew me, she was so glad she 'most 
 fainted away again ; and she let on as it was her 
 that gave away the job. And I took her into the 
 sleeper, and the madam, God bless her ! she knew 
 Sally before and was good to her she took care of 
 her, and is cheering her up. And now, Major, I'm 
 going to take her straight to Denver, and send for 
 a parson and get her married to me, and she'll 
 brace up, sure pop." 
 
 The whistle sounded, and the train started. 
 From the window of the " sleeper " Sinclair and 
 his wife took their last look at the weird scene. 
 The lieutenant, standing at the side of the track, 
 wrapped in his cloak, caught a glimpse of Mrs 
 Sinclair's pretty face, and returned her bow. 
 Then, as the car passed out of sight, he tugged at 
 his mustache and hummed : 
 " Why, boys, why, 
 
 Should we be melancholy, boys, 
 Whose business 'tis to die?" 
 
 In less than an hour, telegrams having in the 
 mean time been sent in both directions, the train 
 
66 THE DENVER EXPRESS. 
 
 ran alongside the platform at Barker's ; and 
 Watkins, inperturbable as usual, met Sinclair, and 
 gave him his letters. 
 
 " Perry gang wiped out, I hear, Major," said he. 
 " Good thing for the country. That's a lesson 
 the ' toughs ' in these parts won't forget for a long 
 time. Plucky girl that give 'em away, wasn't she. 
 Hope she's all right/' 
 
 " She is all right," said Sinclair, with a smile. 
 
 " Glad of that. By-the-way, that father of her'n 
 passed in his checks to-night. He'd got one warn- 
 ing from the Vigilantes, and yesterday they found 
 out he was in with this gang, and they was a-going 
 for him ; but when the telegram come, he put a 
 pistol to his head and saved them all trouble. 
 Good riddance to everybody, I say. The sheriff's 
 here now, and is going east on the next train to 
 get them fellows. He's got a big posse together, 
 and L wouldn't wonder if they was hard to hold 
 in, after the ' boys in blue ' is gone." 
 
 In a few minutes the train was off, with its 
 living freight the just and the unjust, the re- 
 formed and the rescued, the happy and the anxious. 
 With many of the passengers the episode of the 
 night was already a thing of the past. Sinclair 
 sat by the side of his wife, to whose -cheeks the 
 color had all come back ; and Sally Johnson lay 
 in her berth, faint still, but able to give an occa- 
 sional smile to Foster. In the station on the Mis- 
 souri the reporters were gathered about the happy 
 .superintendent, smoking his cigars, and filling 
 
THE DENVER EXPRESS. 67 
 
 their note-books with items. In Denver, their 
 brethren would gladly have done the same, but 
 Watkins failed to gratify them. He was a man of 
 few words. When the train had gone, and a friend 
 remarked : 
 
 " Hope they'll get through all right, now," he 
 simply said : 
 
 " Yes, likely. Two shots don't 'most always go 
 in the same hole." Then he went to the telegraph 
 instrument. In a few minutes he could have told 
 a story as wild as a Norse saga, but what he said, 
 when Denver had responded, was only 
 
 " No. 17, fifty- five minutes late. " 
 
THE MISFORTUNES 
 OF BRO' THOMAS WHEATLEY. 
 
 BY LINA REDWOOD FAIRFAX. 
 
 HE is our office-boy and messenger, and, my 
 senior tells me, has been employed by the 
 firm in this capacity for about thirty years. He is 
 a negro, about sixty years old, rather short and 
 stout, with a mincing, noiseless gait, broad African 
 features, beautiful teeth, and small, round, twink- 
 ling eyes, the movements of which are accompanied 
 by little abrupt, sidewise turns of the head, like a 
 bird. His manner is a curious mixture of deference 
 and self-importance, his voice a soft, sibilant whis- 
 per, and as he was born and bred in Alexandria, Vir- 
 ginia, it seems almost superfluous to add that he 
 and the letter " r" are not on speaking terms. 
 
 He has a prominent characteristic, which always 
 attracts attention at first sight. This is the shape 
 of his head, which is immensely large in propor- 
 
 *** ScribneSs Monthly, September, 1881. 
 
MISFORTUNES OF BRO THOMAS WllEATLEY. 69 
 
 tion, very bald, and so abundant in various queer, 
 knobby excrescences about the forehead and sides, 
 and so unnaturally long and level on top, that for 
 some time after I made his acquaintance I could 
 never see him without finding myself forming 
 absurd conjectures as to whether his cranium and 
 the hydrostatic press could ever have become 
 acquainted at some early period of his life ; and so 
 strong is this association of ideas that, even now, 
 his sudden appearance invariably suggests to me 
 the study of natural philosophy. Poor fellow ! 
 his chagrin was great when this peculiar conforma- 
 tion of his skull was first brought to his notice. 
 He had been telling me for some time past of the 
 " splendid piccha " he had had " took," and I had 
 been promised a sight of it just as soon as it arrived 
 from the photographer's. I confess I had not been 
 sanguine as to the result, although I knew a hand- 
 some portrait was confidently expected by the 
 sitter. One morning he deposited the photograph 
 before me. 
 
 " Hello !" I cried, taking it in my hand ; " here 
 you are, hit off to the life." 
 
 "Do* say that, Mist' Dunkin, do' say hit, seh," 
 he replied, in a tone of deep mortification. Then, 
 catching a glimpse of the picture, his ire broke 
 forth : " Nevvah wuz like me in de wueld," he 
 cried, in an elevated key ; " nevyah wuz ha'f so 
 ugly ez that. I'm I'm a bettah-lookin' man, 
 Mist' Dunkin. Why, look at de color of de thing," 
 contemptuously. " Cain' tell de face f'om de coat. 
 
70 MISFORTUNES OF BRO' THOMAS WHEATLEY. 
 
 I nevvah set up to be what you'd call faih-cum- 
 plectid, but disha things iss same is that thaih ink ; 
 jess iss same. My hade do' look that a way, neitha. 
 Naw, seh, 'taint s' bad 's that." 
 
 "Why, Thomas," said I, "/ think it a very 
 good likeness the complexion is a little dark, to 
 be sure, but do you know I particularly admire the 
 head. Look at that forehead ; any one can see 
 that you are a man of intellect. I tell you it isn't 
 every one who can boast of such a forehead." 
 
 " The the 'mahk you make 'bout me, has been 
 made 'fo'; I may say, has been made quite fre- 
 quent quite frequent ; on'y lass Tuesd'y fohtni't, 
 Sistah Ma'y Ann Jinkins a promnunt membeh of 
 ouh class (that is, Asba'y class, meets on Gay 
 Street), Sistah Ma'y Ann Jinkins, she ups an' sez, 
 befo' de whole class, dat she'd puppose de motion, 
 dat Bro' Thomas Wheatley wuz 'p'inted fus' 
 speakah in de nex' ' Jug-breakin' an' Jaymiah's 
 Hamma,' by de i-nanemous vote of de class. I'm 
 clah to say I wuz 'stonished ; but ahta class wuz 
 ovva, Bro' Moss tole me de 'p'intment wuz made 
 jes' f'om de 'peahunce of my hade, ' 'Cause,' he 
 sez, ' no man cain't be a po' speakah with sich a 
 fine intellec' which we see expressed in de hade 
 of Bro' Thomas Wheatley but, same time, I 
 knowed all time de fus' motion come f'om Sistah 
 Ma'y Ann Jinkins she's a ve'y good friend o' 
 mine, Sistah Ma'y Ann Jinkins thinks a sight o' 
 me ; I 'scohts heh to class ev'y Tuesd'y ev'y 
 Tuesd'y, sine die." 
 
MISFORTUNES OF BRO' THOMAS WHEATLEY. 71 
 
 " You do ? What does your wife have to say to 
 that?" I asked, maliciously. 
 
 He stared at me an instant, then replied : 
 " My wife ! oh oh, Law bless yoh soul, seh, 
 she do* keeh. Bro' 'Dolphus Beam, he sees ahta 
 heh : you see, seh, she's 1-o-n-g way 'moved f'om 
 Asba'y class ; 'twont admit none but fus'-class 
 'speience-givvahs in Asba'y, an' my wife she 
 wa'n't nevvah no han' to talk ; haint got de gif of 
 de tongue which Saul, suhname Paul, speaks of in 
 de Scripcheh don't possess hit, seh." 
 
 " She must be a very nice person to live with," I 
 remarked. 
 
 "Well, y-e-es, seh," replied Thomas, after re- 
 flecting awhile. " I hain't got nuth'n' 'g'in' Ailse ; 
 she's quite, an' ohdaly, a good cook, an' laundriss, 
 an' she's a lady,* an' all that, but sh' ain't not to 
 say what you'd call a giftid 'oman." 
 
 " Like Sister Mary Ann Jinkins, eh ?" 
 
 14 JZgg-zac'ly, seh. Mist' Dunkin, you put hit 
 kehrec', seh. Ailse hain't possessed with none of 
 the high talence, cain't exhoht, naw sing with 
 fehveh, naw yit lead in praieh ; heh talence is 
 mos'ly boun' up in napkins as Scripcheh say 
 mos'ly boun' up in napkins ; foh I do' deny she 
 kin do up all kines o' table-linen, she kin indeed. 
 Naw, seh, I cain't say I got nuth'n' 'g'in' Ailse." 
 
 He was, I think, the worst manager of finances 
 that I have ever known. He cleaned all the offices 
 
 * A virtuous woman. 
 
72 MISFORTUNES OF BRtf THOMAS WHEATLEY, 
 
 in our building, and earned, as near as I could 
 estimate, about thirty-five dollars a month. Three 
 of his four children were self-supporting, and his 
 wife was honest and industrious, taking in wash- 
 ing, and getting well paid for her work. Yet, he 
 was perpetually in debt, and his wages were always 
 overdrawn. Whenever I came into the office after 
 my two-o'clock lunch, and found him seated on 
 his wooden chair, in the corner, gazing absently 
 out at the dingy chimneys opposite apparently 
 too abstracted to observe my entrance, I knew I 
 had only to go to my desk to find, placed in a con- 
 spicuous position thereon, a very small, dirty bit 
 of paper, with these words laboriously inscribed 
 upon it : " Mr. Dunkin Sir cen you oblidge me 
 with the sum of three dolers an a half [or whatever 
 the sum might be] an deduc thee same from mi 
 salry i em in grate kneed of thee same yours mos 
 respecfull thomas wheatley." 
 
 The form was always the same, my name in 
 imposing capitals and the remainder in the very 
 smallest letters which he could coax his stiff old 
 fingers to make, and all written on the tiniest scrap 
 of writing-paper. I think his object was to 
 impress me with his humiliation, impecuniosity, 
 and general low condition, because as soon as he 
 received the money which he always did, I vow- 
 ing to myself each time that this advance should be 
 the last, and as regularly breaking my vow he 
 would tip-toe carefully to the mantel-piece, get 
 down his pen and ink, borrow my sand-bottle, and 
 
MISFORTUNES OF BRO* THOMAS WHEATLEY. 73 
 
 proceed to indite me a letter of acknowledgment. 
 This written, he would present it with a sweeping 
 bow, and then retire precipitately to his corner, 
 chuckling, and perspiring profusely. He usually 
 preferred foolscap for these documents, and the 
 capitals were numerous and imposing. Like the 
 others, however, they were invariably word for 
 word the same, and were couched in the following 
 terms : 
 
 " MR. DUNKIN 
 
 " SIR I have Recieved thee Sum of Three Dolers an a half 
 from Your hans an I Recieve thee same with Joy an Grattetude. 
 " Yours respecfull 
 
 "THOMAS WHEATLEY." 
 
 I said his applications for money were always 
 granted. I must, however, make an exception, 
 which, after all, will only go to prove the rule. 
 One bright morning he met me at the office-door, 
 his face as beaming as the weather. He hardly 
 waited for me to doff my overcoat and hat, when 
 he announced that he had bought a second-hand 
 parlor organ the evening before, on credit, for 
 seventy-five dollars, to be paid in instalments of 
 twelve dollars and a half each. He had been very 
 hard up for a month past, as I had abundant occa- 
 sion to know, and it was therefore with a feeling 
 rather stronger than surprise, that I received the 
 announcement of this purchase. 
 
 " But you haven't fifty cents toward paying for 
 it. And what on earth can you possibly want with 
 
74 MISFORTUNES OF BRO" THOMAS WHEATLEY. 
 
 a parlor organ ? Can you play ? can any of your 
 family play ?" 
 
 " Well, naw, seh," scratching his head reflec- 
 tively. " I cain't say they kin not to say play " 
 as if they were all taking lessons, and expected to 
 become proficient at some not far distant day. 
 " In fac', seh, none on um knows a wued o' music. 
 I didn't mean, seh, I didn't 'tend the the instru- 
 ment fu' househol' puhpasses I I 'tended hit as 
 a off'in' to ouh Sabbath-school. We we has no 
 instrument at present, an' " 
 
 I am afraid I uttered a very bad word at this junct- 
 ure. Thomas started, and retired in great dis- 
 comfiture, and I thought I had made an end of the 
 matter, but that afternoon I found the small scrap 
 of paper on my desk really, I think, with a little 
 practice, Thomas might hope to rival the man who 
 goes about writing the Lord's Prayer in the space 
 of half a dollar. My name was in larger capitals, 
 the rest in smaller letters, than usual, and I was 
 requested " to oblidge him with the sum of twelve 
 dolers an' a half." I knew then that the first 
 organ-instalment was due, but I think it needless 
 to add, his application was refused. About a week 
 afterward, I learned that the Sabbath-school was 
 again without a musical instrument, the organ 
 having been pawned for twenty dollars, Thomas 
 paying ten per cent a month on the money. It 
 was so with everything he undertook. Once he 
 gave me elaborate warning that I must furnish 
 myself with another messenger at once, as he was 
 
MISFORTUNES OF BR& THOMAS WHEATLEY. 75 
 
 going to make a fortune peddling oranges and 
 apples. Accordingly, he bought a barrel (!) of 
 each kind of fruit, sold half at reasonable rates, 
 and then, the remainder beginning to decay on his 
 hands, he came to me, offering really fine Havana 
 oranges at a cent apiece. 
 
 " I'm driffin' 'em off et coss driffin' 'em off et 
 coss," he whispered, speaking rapidly, and waving 
 his hands about, oriental fashion, the palms turned 
 outward and the fingers twirling ; this peculiar 
 gesture seemed intended to indicate the cheapness 
 of his wares. " Dey coss me mo'n that ; heap 
 mo', but I'm faih to lose um all now, en I'm driffin' 
 'em off, sine die." 
 
 After that, some dozen or more of the large 
 wholesale houses engaged him to furnish their 
 counting-rooms with lunch, and he began with 
 brilliant prospects. He brought his basket around 
 to me for first choice. Everything was very nice ; 
 a clean new basket, covered with a white cloth, 
 wherein lay piles of neatly arranged packages done 
 up in letter-paper, with a strange-looking character 
 inscribed upon each. 
 
 " What do these letters mean ?" I asked, taking 
 up one of the packages, and trying in vain to 
 decipher the cabalistic sign upon it. 
 
 Thomas chuckled. 
 
 " Oh, that's to show de kine of san'wich dey is, 
 Mist' Dunkin. You see, seh, I got th'ee kines so 
 I put 'B' on de beef, 'H' on de hahm, an' I 
 stahtid to put 4 H ' on de hystehs. too, but den I 
 
76 MISFORTUNES OF BRO" THOMAS WHEATLEY. 
 
 foun' I couldn't tell de hystehs f'om de hahm y so den 
 I put ' H I' on de hystehs/' 
 
 " Oh, I see," said I, opening one of the 
 " hysteh " packages. It was very good ; an excel- 
 lent French roll, well spread with choice butter, 
 and two large, nicely fried oysters between. I ate 
 it speedily, took another, and, that disposed of, 
 asked the price. 
 
 44 Ten cents, seh." 
 
 " For two !" 
 
 * 4 Yes, seh ; fi' cents 'piece." 
 
 44 Why, Thomas," I exclaimed, " you mustn't be- 
 gin by asking five cents apiece ; you'll ruin your- 
 self. These things are worth at least twice as much 
 money. Why, I pay ten cents for a sandwich at an 
 eating-house, and it doesn't begin to have as good 
 materials in it as yours. You ought to ask more." 
 
 4 ' Naw, seh ; naw, seh ; Mist' Dunkin ; as' less, 
 an* sell mo' that's my motteh, I have all dese 
 yeah clean sole out 'fo' two 'clock clean sole out 
 'fo' two 'clock." 
 
 I interrupted him, asking the cost of each article, 
 and then proving to him by calculation that he 
 lost money on each sandwich he sold at five cents. 
 But I could not convince him he received the 
 twenty-five cents which I insisted on paying him 
 with many expressions of gratitude, but he left me 
 reiterating his belief in " quick sales and small 
 profits." 4 ' Be back yeah clean sole out by two 
 'clock, sine die," he exclaimed, brightly, as he 
 departed. 
 
MISFORTUNES OF BRO* THOMAS WHEATLEY. 77 
 
 This venture brought him six dollars in debt at 
 the expiration of a fortnight, and after that, by 
 my advice, he abandoned peddling, condemning 
 it as a " low-life trade," and agreeing to stick to 
 legitimate business for the future. 
 
 One of his famous expressions, the most formid- 
 able rival of sine die (which, as the reader has doubt- 
 less discovered, he intended as an elegant synonym 
 for without fail}, was entirely original this was 
 " Granny to Mash" (I spell phonetically), used as 
 an exclamation, and only employed when laboring 
 under great mental excitement. 
 
 As I was proceeding homeward one evening, I 
 spied him standing on a street corner, holding 
 forth to a select assemblage of his own color, who 
 were listening to him with an appearance of the 
 profoundest respect. His back was toward me, and 
 I stopped and caught his words without attracting 
 observation. He had assumed a very pompous, 
 hortatory manner, and I could well believe he 
 held a prominent position in Asbury class. " Yes, 
 gentlemun ; yes," he was saying, c< ez Brotheh 
 Jones 'mahks, I do live in a ve'y .ra-peeiaw at-mos- 
 pheeh suh-roundid by people of leahnin', with 
 books, pens, blottehs, letteh-pess, en what not, ez 
 common ez these yeah bricks which I see befo' me. 
 But thaih hain't no trueh wued then ev'y station 
 has its hawdships, gentlemun, en mine ah not 
 exemp', mine ah not exemp'. 
 
 " Fus'ly, thaih' s the 'sponsebility. W'y, this 
 yeah ve'y mawnin' I banked nigh on to a thousan' 
 
78 MISFORTUNES OF BRO' THOMAS WHEATLEY. 
 
 dollehs fu' de young boss. En w'en I tell you mo'n 
 two hundred stamps is passed my mouth this yeah 
 blessid evenin', 't will give you some slight idee of 
 the magnitude of the duties I has to puffawn. 
 W'y, gentlemun, I is drank wateh, an' I is drank 
 beeh, but my mouth hain't got back hits right 
 moistuh yit." 
 
 The day of the 2oth of July, 1877, was very quiet. 
 We had heard, of course, of the " strikes " all over 
 the country, and the morning papers brought 
 tidings of the trouble with the Baltimore and Ohio 
 railroad employes at Martinsburg, but no serious 
 difficulty was apprehended in Baltimore. 
 
 That afternoon I was detained very late at the 
 office. I intended beginning a three weeks' holi- 
 day next morning, and was trying to get before- 
 hand with my work. My senior was out of town, 
 and Thomas and I had been very busy since three 
 o'clock I writing, he copying the letters. After 
 five, we had the building pretty much to ourselves, 
 and a little after half past five, the fire alarm 
 sounded. The City Hall bell was very distinctly 
 heard, and Thomas who had finished his work and 
 was waiting to take some papers to the office of 
 the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad for me took 
 down a list of the different stations, to ascertain 
 the whereabouts of the fire. 
 
 " i 5," he counted, as the strokes fell ; " that 
 makes fifteen, and that is," passing his finger 
 slowly down the card, " that is Eastun Po-lice 
 
MISFORTUNES OF BRO* THOMAS WHEATLEY. 79 
 
 station, cawneh naw, on Bank Street. On Bank 
 Street, seh." 
 
 I listened an instanc. 
 
 " 151," I said, " 151 ; it isn't fifteen." 
 
 Another five minutes elapsed, while he searched 
 for " 151," I busily writing the while. 
 
 " Hit's w'y, Lawd-a-massy ! Mist' Dunkin, 
 hit's fu' de milinte'y." 
 
 " Let me see," said I. " Yes, so it is ; but they 
 only want them to go to Cumberland. There's a 
 strike there, and the strikers are getting trouble- 
 some." 
 
 He made no reply, and as the bells ceased ring- 
 ing sopn afterward, I resumed my work, which 
 kept me busy until seven o'clock. I then placed 
 the papers in an envelope, and took up the letters. 
 
 " Be sure you see the Vice-President himself, 
 Thomas," I said. " You know him, don't you ?" 
 
 Receiving no reply, and turning to ascertain the 
 cause of his silence, I saw he was leaning out at 
 the open window, gazing earnestly northward 
 toward Baltimore Street. 
 
 " Thomas ! Thomas !" I shouted. 
 
 He heard me at last, and withdrawing his head, 
 apologized for his inattention. 
 
 " I thought I heehed sup'n nutha like a 
 hollehin' kine of a noise, an' some guns, aw sup'n, 
 an' I wuz look'n' to see, but thaih don't 'peah to 
 be nuthin' goin' on." 
 
 " They're mending the railroad on Baltimore 
 Street," I said. "I suppose that is what you 
 
So MISFORTUNES OF BR& THOMAS WffEATLEY. 
 
 heard." And I gave the papers into his hand, 
 repeating my directions : "If the gentleman is 
 not there, don't leave them on any account. I'll 
 wait here until you get back but go first to the 
 post-office and mail these." 
 
 He wrapped the papers carefully in his handker- 
 chief, placed them in his vest-pocket, and started 
 off. 
 
 After he left, I leaned my elbow on the dusty 
 window-sill and lounged there awhile, watching 
 him as he trotted busily down the deserted street ; 
 then, rousing myself, I stretched my weary limbs 
 and set about arranging my desk, closing the safe, 
 etc. At last everything was put in order, and I 
 seated myself in an arm-chair, rubbing my cramped 
 fingers and wrist, and afterward consulting my 
 watch, more for something to do than to ascertain 
 the time, which the clock on the mantel-piece 
 would have told me. 
 
 Only quarter past seven, and he might be de- 
 tained until half-past eight. I leaned back and 
 closed my eyes. How still and hot it was ! I 
 believe I was the only human being in that whole 
 long block of big buildings on that July evening. 
 Everything was as quiet as the typical country 
 churchyard. I had a lethargic sense now and then 
 of the far-off tinkle of a car-bell. I could catch a 
 distant rumble from a passing vehicle a block or 
 two away. And, yes, I did observe the presence of 
 a dull, continuous drone, which proceeded from 
 the direction of Baltimore Street, but just as I sat 
 
MISFORTUNES OF BR& THOMAS WHEATLEY. 81 
 
 up to hearken, some one passing whistled, " Silver 
 Threads among the Gold," the melody tracing 
 itself upon the stillness like phosphoric letters in a 
 dark room. I listened with vivid interest, but the 
 tune presently grew fainter, faded, and was dis- 
 solved into the dusk, leaving me lonelier than 
 before, and too sleepy to give my attention to the 
 strange hum, of which I again became dully con- 
 scious. It is tiresome work waiting here with 
 nothing to do, was my last drowsy thought, as I 
 folded my arms on the desk, and rested my head 
 upon them, to be aroused by a knocking at my 
 door. 
 
 " Come in," I called. 
 
 The door creaked on its hinges, and somebody 
 entered. I waited an instant, when an adolescent 
 voice of the colored persuasion asked : 
 
 " Do somebody name Mist' Dunkin live here ?" 
 ' Yes. I'm here ; what do you want ?" 
 
 " Dey wan's you down-y street." 
 
 I stretched myself, reached mechanically for a 
 match, and lighted the gas, which disclosed a small 
 yellow boy, standing in the doorway, some fright 
 and a good deal of excitement in his aspect. I then 
 detected that he had something important to tell, 
 and that his errand was a source of gratification to 
 him. 
 
 " Well, what is it ?" I asked, after we had stared 
 at one another. 
 
 " Ain't yer yeared nuth'n' 'tall ?" a shad* of con- 
 tempt in his tone. 
 
82 MISFORTUNES OF BRO' THOMAS WHEATLEY. 
 
 "No, what is there to hear?" I asked, rather 
 irascibly. 
 
 " Dey's a big fight down-town ; de folks dey 
 done tore de Six Reggimen' all ter pieces, an' 
 dey's wuk'n 'long on de Fif now." 
 
 11 Whereabouts?" 
 
 I started up, and got on my hat in an instant. 
 
 " Dey's et Camd' Street depot, now. Ole col- 
 ored gentlemun he's been hurtid, an' sent me alter 
 you." 
 
 It did not take half a minute to lock the door, 
 and we proceeded down-stairs together. 
 
 " He's down yere on Eutaw Street," continued 
 my informant. " Dey's fightin' all 'long dere 
 I come nigh gittin' hit myself he gimme ten cents 
 to come tell yer maybe he's done dade now," he 
 added, cheerfully, as we gained the street, and 
 began to walk. 
 
 " Dey fet all 'long yere," was his next breath- 
 less remark, made some time later. We were now 
 proceeding rapidly up Baltimore Street, as rapidly, 
 at least, as people can who are pushing against a 
 steady stream of agitated humanity. " Dey fawr'd 
 a bullet clean through de Sun-paper room," pur- 
 sued the boy, " an' dey bust up dem dere winder- 
 glassis " 
 
 Pausing involuntarily to look, I caught stray 
 scraps of additional information. 
 
 " Twenty-five people killed." 
 
 " As many as that ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; fully, I should say. The Sixth fired 
 
MISFORTUNES OF BRO' THOMAS WHEATLEY. 83 
 
 right into the crowd, all along from Gay to Eutaw 
 Street/' 
 
 " Well, I hear the Sixth are pretty well cleaned 
 out by this time, so it's tit for tat." 
 
 Then- 
 
 " The Fifth must be there now " 
 
 " The Fifth ? what are they two hundred men 
 against two thousand ? Lord knows how it will 
 end. I hope this old town won't be burnt, that's 
 all." The boy, listening, turned fearfully around, 
 looking with distended eyes into mine. " Come 
 on," I responded, and we spoke no more until we 
 reached Liberty Street. Then, all at once, above 
 the street noises the rumbling of fugitive vehicles, 
 the jingle of street-cars, and the hum of excited 
 voices rose a deep, hollow roar ; a horrible sound 
 of human menace in it, which was distinguishable 
 even at that distance. The boy pressed closer, 
 clutching timidly at my hand. 
 
 " Is yer is yer gwine ter keep on ?" he faltered. 
 " De ole gentleman, he 'lowed puticler you wa'n't 
 to run no resk 'count o' him." 
 
 " Where is he ?" I asked. "In the thick of 
 it?" 
 
 " No, sir ; he's lay'n' down in a little alley 
 clean off d' street." 
 
 " Come on, then ; you'll have to show me where 
 it is. I won't let you get hurt." 
 
 When we first wheeled into South Eutaw Street, 
 I was conscious of an almost painful stillness, 
 more noticeable after the tumult of confused sounds 
 
84 MISFOR rLWES OP BKO THOMA S WHEA TLE V. 
 
 from which we had just emerged. The houses on 
 either side were fast closed, doors and windows. 
 Some of them were even unlighted, and not a 
 vehicle was in sight. The street was partially 
 unpaved, where new gas-pipes had been laid, and 
 piles of paving-stones were heaped on the edge ot 
 the sidewalks. The place seemed deserted. 
 
 But presently, far down in the immediate vicinity 
 of the depot, I perceived accumulated a dense, dark 
 mass, like a low-hanging cloud, from which a low, 
 hoarse murmur seemed to proceed. It swayed 
 slightly from side to side, with the inevitable motion 
 of a large crowd, while at the same time it kept 
 well within certain bounds. We walked quickly 
 along, block after block, without encountering a 
 single soul. I had been so engrossed with the 
 dark, muttering pulsation in front, that I failed to 
 attend to the sounds from behind, until the boy, 
 jerking my hand, bade me listen to the drum. I 
 heard it then plainly, as soon as he spoke, and the 
 approaching tramp of disciplined feet was soon 
 after distinctly audible. I turned and looked. 
 The Fifth Regiment was marching down the middle 
 of North Eutaw Street, having not yet crossed 
 Baltimore Street, the drum corps in front, the 
 colors flying, and crowding the sidewalks on either 
 hand was a motley van and bodyguard, consisting 
 of street loafers and half-grown 'boys, who had 
 come along to see the " fun," and whose sympa- 
 thies were plainly with the rioters. The foremost 
 of these soon reached the spot where I stood, and 
 
AUSFOR TUNES OF BRO' THOMA S WHEA TLE Y. 85 
 
 as I drew aside to let them pass, I heard a gamin 
 say to his neighbor : 
 
 " I say, Bill, these yere putty little soldier-boys 
 hadn't better make ther las' will an' testyment 
 ain't it ?' ' 
 
 '* I dunno 'bout that," replied the other, a 
 veteran of fourteen, who was chewing tobacco, and 
 whom I recognized as a certain one-eyed newsboy. 
 " These yere men hez fought in the late war, yer 
 see, plenty of 'urn, an' you bet they don't carry no 
 bokays on ther bayonits." 
 
 As the column advanced, I glanced anxiously 
 toward the human sea down yonder. At first, no 
 additional movement could be detected, then, as 
 the drums approached nearer, a quick stir, like a 
 sudden gust, struck its troubled waters ; the 
 hoarse, horrible cry tore raggedly through the 
 summer air. And then I hastily drew the terrified 
 child with me into the shade of a receding door- 
 way for the mad flood came raving over its 
 bounds toward us. 
 
 The mob was mostly composed of men in their 
 working-clothes, with bare arms and gaunt, 
 haggard faces. There were some women among 
 them wretched, half-starved creatures who kept 
 shrieking like furies all the time. As the regiment, 
 still moving resolutely onward, approached within 
 a few yards of them, there fell the first volley of 
 stones, accompanied with hoots and jeers of 
 derision. 
 
 " Thuz only two hundred of 'urn, boys," shouted 
 
86 MISFORTUNES OF BRO* THOMAS WHEATLEY. 
 
 a rough voice. " They'll run quick enough if you 
 give it to 'um good," and a second shower of mis- 
 siles fell into the ranks, the mob arming themselves 
 with the paving-stones at hand. 
 
 But the little band of soldiers did not once falter, 
 although here and there in their ranks you could 
 discover a man leaning against a comrade, who 
 gave him support as they moved on together. The 
 crowd seemed a little dashed. The dispersion of 
 the Sixth Regiment had been such a mere bagatelle, 
 and their own number had, since then, been re- 
 enforced by half the professional rowdies in town. 
 They redoubled their cries, which, from jeers, now 
 became shouts of rage and mortification. 
 
 " Wot are you 'bout?" Give it to 'um good, \ 
 tell yer. They daresn't fire," howled the same 
 brawny giant who had spoken before. 
 
 As they continued the attack, a pistol-shot could 
 be heard now and then from the crowd. The regi- 
 ment did not return the fire, but as the mob pressed 
 closer, an order from the front was passed along 
 the line. 
 
 " Fix bayonets." 
 
 The opposing parties were now only a few feet 
 apart, and a rain of stones was falling so thick and 
 fast as to darken the air, when all at once I saw 
 the colonel's sword flash out, the blunt edge strik- 
 ing one of the rioters who was pressing on him. 
 
 " Clear the way, there !" he cried. 
 
 Then, wheeling and facing his command, his 
 voice rang out, clear as a bugle : 
 
MISFORTUNES OF BRO' THOMAS WHEATLEY. 87 
 
 " A - r- m - s, 'port ! Double-time, march ! 
 Ch-ar-ge, bayonets ! Hurrah ! Give 'em a yell, 
 boys, and you can do it," added the colonel. 
 
 I cannot describe the shout which followed a 
 clear, ringing, organized whoop ; fresh and vi- 
 brant ; of a perfectly distinct quality from the 
 hoarse, undisciplined howl of the mob sounding 
 cool and terrible, like the cry of an avenging 
 angel. 
 
 The mob turned and fled, appalled, melting away 
 like wax before the blue flame of the glittering 
 bayonets, and the regiment entered the depot. 
 
 Then I took time to breathe, and remembered 
 Thomas. 
 
 " He ain't fur f'om yere/' said the boy. " Right 
 'roun' d' corner." 
 
 And we passed out of the shelter of the doorway 
 to a small, dirty alley, about twenty-five yards dis- 
 tant, where I found the old man resting against a 
 lamp-post, the blood streaming down his face from 
 a ghastly wound in the head, and his eyes closed. 
 I made the boy get some water, and after bathing 
 his face for a few moments, I succeeded in rousing 
 him. 
 
 " Is that you, Mist' Dunkin ?" he asked, faintly. 
 
 " Yes. How do you feel, Thomas ?" 
 
 " Dey's tuhibul times down-street," he gasped. 
 " I like to got kilt." 
 
 A pause. 
 
88 MISFORTUNES OF BRO* THOMAS WHEATLEY. 
 
 " Dey 'lowed dey wanted dem daih papehs an' 
 dey didn't git 'um an' den den dey hit me 
 side de hade with a brickbat an' I come 'long 
 tell I git yeah an' den, disha boy he come 
 'long- 
 
 His voice was very faint and his hands very cold. 
 
 " Don't talk any more now," I said, chafing 
 them in mine, while I wondered perplexedly how 
 I should get him home. Presently he spoke again : 
 
 " But de papehs is all right, seh. I hilt on to 
 'um, sho'. Dey dey couldn't git 'um nohow, wid 
 all de smahtniss," he said, with feeble triumph. 
 " Dey's right yeah in my wescut pocket." Then 
 he added, with a sudden change of tone : " But 
 I'd like to go home, Mist' Dunkin ; Ailse'll be 
 oneasy 'bout me." 
 
 I had to leave him with the boy while I went for 
 a doctor and a vehicle, neither of which was easy to 
 be had, but finally a milk-wagon was pressed into 
 service, and although the mob had gathered 
 together again, and were besieging the depot, yet, 
 after some delay, we succeeded in conveying him 
 to his home. I saw him safe in bed, his hurt 
 dressed ; then, after bestowing a reward upon the 
 colored boy, who had rendered me such efficient 
 service, I left him in charge of the doctor and his 
 wife. 
 
 Th3 latter was a small, plump yellow woman, 
 with large, gentle black eyes, and the soft voice so 
 often found among Virginia "house" servants. 
 After watching her as she assisted the surgeon to 
 
MISFORTUNES OF BRO* THOMAS WHEATLEY. 89 
 
 dress the wound, I came to the conclusion all of 
 her talents were by no means " bound up in nap- 
 kins," and I went home assured my faithful old 
 messenger was left in very capable hands. 
 
 Next morning, directly after breakfast, I sallied 
 forth to inquire concerning his condition. After 
 passing along the crowded thoroughfares, where 
 everybody was occupied with the riot, it was a 
 relief to find myself turning into the obscure little 
 street where he lived. 
 
 " Here, at least, everything seems peaceful 
 enough," I said, aloud, as I approached the house. 
 I was just in the act of placing my foot on the 
 one door-step, when the door was thrown violently 
 open, and a tall black woman bounced out, collid- 
 ing with me as she passed, her superior momentum, 
 thrusting me backward across the narrow pave- 
 ment into the street. She was too excited to heed 
 my exclamation of astonishment. I don't think 
 she saw me, even, for she turned immediately and 
 faced some one standing in the doorway, whom 
 I now perceived to be Ailse, looking dreadfully 
 frightened. 
 
 " Good- morn in', Mis' Wheatley," said the 
 Amazon, with withering sarcasm ; "w*/-mornin', 
 madam. I think you'll know it the nex' time I 
 darkens your doors, I think you will. Served me 
 right, though, we'en I demeaned myself to come ; I 
 might 'a' knowed what treatment I'd 'eceive from 
 you. Ef I hadn't ben boun' by solemn class-rules 
 to pay some 'tention to Brother Wheatley' s im- 
 
90 MISFORTUNES OF BRO' THOMAS WHEATLEY. 
 
 mortal soul" these words were uttered at the 
 very top of her voice" you wouldn't 'a' caught 
 me comin' ; but I'll never come ag'in, never ; so 
 make yourself easy, Mis' Wheatley. " 
 
 A shade of relief passed over Ailse's features as 
 this assurance was repeated, and I coming forward 
 at this moment, the representative of the church 
 militant betook herself off, while I entered and 
 spoke to Ailse, who, fairly dazed, sank into a chair, 
 and stared me helplessly in the face. There was a 
 moment's silence, when she suddenly rose and 
 offered me a seat, remarking, as she did so, that 
 " Sisteh Ma'y Ann Jinkins ca'in' on so" made her 
 forget her manners. 
 
 " What is the matter ?" said I. 
 
 " I dunno, seh, 'cep'n' she's mad 'cause docteh 
 won't leave heh stay and talk to Mist' Wheatley ; 
 he made heh go, an' I s'pose hit kirtdeh put heh 
 out." 
 
 " What was she doing ?" 
 
 " Talkin', seh ; jiss talkin' and prayin'." 
 
 " And exciting the man into a fever," said the 
 doctor, entering at that moment. " I came here 
 half an hour ago," he continued, turning to me, 
 11 and found this woman who really is a good 
 nurse turned out of her husband's room by that 
 termagant who has just gone, and whom I found 
 in the act of preparing the man for death, she 
 having decided his hours on earth were numbered ; 
 in fact, I actually chanced in upon a species of 
 commendatory prayer, which, if continued another 
 
MISFORTUNES OF BRO' THOMAS WHEATLEY. 91 
 
 half hour and I have every reason to think it 
 would have been would almost inevitably have 
 ended the man's life." 
 
 " I suppose I had better not see him this morn- 
 ing, then," said I. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; you can see him ; he's doing well 
 now, and if he doesn't talk too much, I think the 
 sight of a cheerful face will do him good," and I 
 left him giving some directions to Ailse, while I 
 proceeded up-stairs to the room where Thomas lay. 
 He was awake, so I walked up to his bedside, and 
 asked him how he felt. 
 
 " I'm tollubul, thankee, seh ; de medicine makes 
 me kind o' sleepy, that's all." 
 
 I seated myself beside him, there was a moment 
 or two of silence, then he asked, fretfully : 
 
 " Whai whaih's Ailse ? I like to see the 'oman 
 'roun'; s'haint got no speshul great gif , but she's 
 kind o' handy wen a body's sick." 
 
 " You don't seem to care so much for gifted 
 women in a sick-room, Thomas?" I remarked, 
 somewhat mischievously, after I had summoned 
 his wife from down-stairs. 
 
 " Well, naw, seh," a little shamefacedly. " Not 
 so much. You see, seh, dey dey'smos' too much 
 fu' a body, sich times. Dey will talk, cou'se dey 
 will, an' 'livah 'scouhcis, an' a sick man he hain't 
 got de strenth to to supplicate in kine, an' hit 
 kind o' mawtifies him, seh." 
 
 Once more there followed a silence, when I 
 asked : 
 
92 MISFORTUNES OF BRO' THOMAS WHEATLEY. 
 
 " Thomas, why didn't you give up those papers 
 to the mob, when they attacked you last night ? 
 Your retaining them might have cost you your life. 
 I didn't mean you to endanger your life for them." 
 
 He smiled slightly, as his glance met mine. 
 
 " I dunno, seh," he replied, with his old reflec- 
 tive air. " You tole me mos' pehticaleh to hole on 
 to'um, an' 'twouldn't be doin' my duty faithful 
 to let 'um go 's long ez I could hole on to 'um." 
 
 " But suppose they had killed you ?" 
 
 "Well, Mist' Dunkin, ef dey had, I hope I'd 
 been ready to go. I ben tryin' to lead a godly an' 
 Chris'chun life, ez Scripcheh sez, fu' fawty yeahs, 
 now, an* I hope I'd a foun' dyin' grace at de las'. 
 You see, seh, thing hoped me mos' was de thoughts 
 of a tex' Bro' Moss preached on las' Sund'y ; 
 'peached like hit hep' on jinglin' in my hade all 
 time dey was jawin' an' fightin' with me." 
 
 " What text was it ?" I asked. 
 
 But he was almost asleep, and his wife signalled 
 me not to wake him. So I was stealing away 
 toward the door, when he opened his eyes and 
 murmured, drowsily : 
 
 " De tex', oh yes, seh. I fo'got 'twas a 
 Scripcheh tex' 4 Be thou faithful unto 
 
 He then turned over, settling himself comfort- 
 ably in his pillows, and in a moment dropped 
 asleep. 
 
 In due course of time, he made his appearance in 
 the office again, being anxious to " resume his 
 duties," he said. But that blow on the head has 
 
MISFORTUNES OF BRO' THOMAS WHEATLEY. 93 
 
 proved to be a serious affair, affecting the old man's 
 memory permanently, and giving a violent shock 
 to his system, from which it will never entirely 
 recover. He is no longer the clear-headed mes- 
 senger he was, when he was wont to assert no 
 idle boast either that he could " fetch an' cai' 
 eq'il to any man." Now and then, in these latter 
 days, he confuses things a little, always suffering 
 the keenest mortification when he discovers his 
 mistakes. As I said in the beginning, he is still 
 our office-boy and messenger, although a smart 
 young mulatto is hired to come betimes, make 
 things tidy, and leave before the old man gets 
 down, so his feelings mayn't be hurt. He some- 
 times remarks on our being the " cleanis' gentle- 
 mun in de wueld," but we contrive that no whisper 
 of the real state of the case ever reaches his ear, 
 and he is allowed to sweep and dust a little to 
 satisfy his mind. 
 
THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO. 
 
 BY LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY. 
 
 IT is a cameo to break one's heart !" said 
 Mrs. Dalliba, as she toyed with the superb 
 jewel. ' The cutting is unmistakably Florentine, 
 and yet you have placed it among your Indian cu- 
 riosities. I do not understand it at all." 
 
 Mrs. Dalliba was a connoisseur in gems ; she 
 had travelled from one extremity of Europe to the 
 other ; had studied the crown jewels of nearly 
 every civilized nation, haunted museums, and was 
 such a frequent visitor at the jewellers' of the 
 Palais Royal, that many of them had come to re- 
 gard her as an individual who might harbor bur- 
 glarious intentions. She was a very harmless 
 specialist, however, who, though she loved these 
 stars of the underworld better than any human 
 being, could never have been tempted to make one 
 of them unfairly her own, and she seldom pur- 
 
 *** Galaxy, January, 1877. 
 
THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO. 95 
 
 chased, for she never coveted one unless it was 
 something quite extraordinary, beyond the reach 
 of even her considerable fortune. Meanwhile few 
 of the larger jewelry houses had in their employ 
 lapidaries more skilled than Mrs. Dalliba. She 
 pursued her studies for the mere love of the 
 science, devoting a year in Italy to mosaics, 
 cameos, and intaglios. And yet the Crevecceur 
 cameo had puzzled wiser heads than Mrs. Dalliba' s, 
 adept though she was. It was cut from a solid 
 heart-shaped gem, a layer of pure white, shad- 
 ing down through exquisite gradations into deep 
 green, and representing Aphrodite rising from the 
 sea ; the white foam rose gracefully, with arms ex- 
 tended, scattering the drops of spray from her 
 hands and her wind-blown hair ; the foamy waves 
 were beautifully cut with their intense hollows and 
 snowy crests ; it was evidently the work of a cul- 
 tivated as well as a natural artist ; it was not sur- 
 prising that Mrs. Dalliba should insist that it 
 could not have been executed out of Italy. 
 
 But Prof. Stonehenge was right too ; it was 
 a stone of the chalcedonic family, resembling sar- 
 donyx, except in color ; others, similar to it both in 
 a natural state and wrought into arrow-heads, had 
 been found along the shores of Lake Superior. 
 This seemed to have been brought away from its 
 associates by some wandering tribe, for it had 
 been discovered in Central Illinois. The nearest 
 point at which other relics belonging to the same 
 period had been found was the site of Fort Creve- 
 
96 THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO. 
 
 coeur, near Starved Rock, Illinois. After all, the 
 stone only differed from the arrow-heads of Lake 
 Superior in its beautiful carving and unprecedent- 
 ed size and, ah, yes ! there was another differ- 
 ence, the mystery of its discovery. No other 
 skeleton among all the buried braves unearthed by 
 scientific research at Crevecceur had been found 
 with a gem for a heart a gem that glittered not 
 on the breast, but within a chest hooped with 
 human bone. Mrs. Dalliba had just remarked that 
 she had never felt so strong a desire to possess and 
 wear any jewel as now ; but when Prof. Stone- 
 henge told how the uncanny thing rattled within 
 the white ribs of the skeleton in which it was 
 found, she allowed the gem to slip from her hand, 
 while something of its own pale green flickered in 
 the disgusted expression which quivered about the 
 corners of her mobile mouth. The cameo was a 
 mystery which had baffled geologist, antiquarian, 
 and sculptor alike, for Father Francis Xavier had 
 gone down to his grave with his secret and his 
 cameo hidden in his heart. He had kept both well 
 for two centuries, and when the heart crumbled in 
 dust it took its secret with it, leaving only the 
 cameo to bewilder conjecture. 
 
 Its story was, alter all, a simple one. On the 
 southern shore of Michillimackinac, in the roman- 
 tic days of the first exploration of the great lakes 
 by the Courreurs de Bois and pioneer priests, had 
 settled good Pere Ignace, a devoted Jesuit mission- 
 ary. The old man was revered and loved by the 
 
THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO, 97 
 
 Indians among whom he dwelt. His labors blos- 
 somed in a little village, called from his patron 
 saint the mission of St. Ignace, that displayed its 
 cluster of white huts and wigwams like the petals 
 of a water-lily on the margin of the lake. Just 
 back of the village was a round knoll which served 
 as a landmark on the lake, for the shore near St. 
 Ignace was remarkably level. On the summit of 
 this mound the good father had reared a great 
 white cross, and at its foot the superstitious 
 Indians often laid votive offerings of strongly in- 
 congruous character. Here he had lived and 
 taught for many years, succeeding in instructing 
 his little flock in the French tongue, and in at least 
 an outward semblance of the Catholic religion. 
 Even the rude trappers, who came to trade at regu- 
 lar intervals, revered him, and lived like good 
 Christians while at the mission, so as not to coun- 
 teract his teaching by their lawless example. Here 
 Pere Ignace was growing old, and even this grass- 
 hopper of a spiritual charge was becoming a bur- 
 den. His superior, at Montreal, understood this, 
 and sent him. an assistant. 
 
 Very unlike Father Ignatius was Pere Frangois 
 Xavier, a man with all the fire and enthusiasm of 
 youth in his blood just the one for daring, hazard- 
 ous enterprises ; just the one to undergo all the 
 privation and toil of planting a mission ; to under- 
 take plans requiring superhuman efforts, and to 
 carry them through successfully by main force of 
 will. A better assistant for Father Ignatius could 
 
98 THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO. 
 
 not have been found. It was force, will, and intel- 
 lect in the service of love and meekness ; only there 
 was a doubt if the servant might not usurp the 
 place of the master, and the sway of love be not 
 materially advanced by its new ally. Indeed, if 
 the truth had been known, even the Bishop of 
 Montreal had felt that Father Francis Xavier was 
 too ambitious a character to reside safely in too 
 close proximity to himself ; and engrossing em- 
 ployment at a distance for him, rather than the 
 expressed solicitude for Father Ignatius, prompted 
 this appointment. The results of the following 
 year approved the arrangement. The mission 
 received a new accession of life ; its interests were 
 pushed forward energetically. 
 
 Father Francis Xavier devoted himself to an ac- 
 quisition of the various Indian dialects, and to ex- 
 cursions among the neighboring tribes. Converts 
 were made in astonishing numbers, and they 
 brought liberal gifts to the little church from their 
 simple possessions. Father Ignatius had never 
 thought to barter with the trappers and traders, 
 but his colleague did ; large church warehouses 
 were erected, and the mission soon had revenues of 
 importance. Away in the interior Father Xavier 
 had discovered there was a silver mine ; but this 
 discovery, for the present, he made no attempt at 
 exploiting. He had secured it to the church by 
 title deed and treaty with the chief who claimed 
 it ; had visited it and assured himself that it would 
 some day be very valuable, and he contented him- 
 
THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO. 99 
 
 self with this for the present, and even managed to 
 forget its acquisition in his yearly report sent to 
 Montreal. Father Francis Xavier was something 
 of a geologist ; his father was a Florentine jewel- 
 ler, and the son had studied as his apprentice, not 
 having at first been destined for the church. Even 
 after taking holy orders, Father Francis Xavier 
 had labored over precious stones designed for ec- 
 clesiastical decoration. His specialty had been 
 that of a gem engraver, and his long white fingers 
 were remarkably skilful and delicate, This north- 
 ern region, with all its wealth of precious stones, 
 was a great jewel casket for him, and he became at 
 once an enthusiastic collector. 
 
 Before the coming of his assistant, Father Igna- 
 tius had managed his own simple housekeeping in 
 all its most humble details. Now they had the 
 services of an Indian maid of all work, who had 
 been brought up under the eyes of Father Igna- 
 tius, and whom the old man regarded rather as a 
 daughter than as a servant. Her moccasined feet 
 fell as silently as those of spirits as she glided 
 about their lodge. She never sang at her work, 
 and rarely spoke, but she smiled often with a smile 
 so childlike as to be almost silly in expression. 
 Father Ignatius loved the silent smile, and a word 
 from him was always sure to bring it ; but it 
 angered Father Francis Xavier more than many a 
 more repulsive thing would have done. It seemed 
 so utterly imbecile and babyish to him, he had got 
 so far away from innocence and smiles and child- 
 
loo THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO. 
 
 hood himself, that the sight of them irritated him. 
 The young Indian girl had a long and almost un- 
 pronounceable name. Pere Ignace had baptized 
 her Marie, and the new name had gradually taken 
 the place of the old. 
 
 One day, as she was silently but dexterously 
 putting to order the large upper room, which serv- 
 ed Pere Francis Xavier as study and dormitory, she 
 paused before his collection of agates and miner- 
 als, and stroking the stones, said in her soft French 
 and Indian patois, " Pretty, pretty." Father Xav- 
 ier was seated at the great open window, looking 
 over the top of his book away across the breezy 
 lake. He heard the words, and knew that she was 
 looking at him from the corner of her eye, but his 
 only reply was a deeper scowl and a lowering of 
 his glance to the printed page. The silly smile 
 which he felt sure was upon her face faded out, but 
 the girl spoke again, and this time more resolute- 
 ly, determined to attract his attention. " Pretty 
 stones. Marie's father many more, much prettier 
 much." 
 
 Father Xavier laid down his book. He was all 
 attention. " Where did your father get them ?" 
 he asked. 
 
 " In the mountains climb, in the mines dig, in 
 the lake dive, he seek them all the time summer." 
 
 " What does he do with them ?" 
 
 " Cuts them like mon pbre," and Marie imitated 
 in pantomime the use of the hammer and chisel. 
 " Cut them all time winter, very many." 
 
THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO, lol 
 
 " What does he do that for?" asked the priest, 
 surprised. 
 
 " All the same you," replied the girl " make 
 arrow-heads." 
 
 " Oh ! he makes arrow-heads, does he ? Mine 
 are not arrow-heads, but I should like to see what 
 your father does. Does he live far from here ?" 
 
 " Marie take you to-night in canoe." 
 
 " Very well, after supper." 
 
 She had often taken him out upon the lake 
 before, for she managed their birch-bark canoe with 
 more skill than himself, and it was convenient to 
 have some one to paddle while he fished or read or 
 dreamed. She rowed him swiftly up the lake for 
 several miles, then, fastening the canoe, led the 
 way through a trail in the forest. The sun was set- 
 ting, and " the whispering pines and the hemlocks" 
 of the forest primeval formed a tapestry of gloom 
 around the paternal wigwam as they reached it. 
 Black Beaver, her father, reclined lazily in the 
 door, watching the coals of the little fire in front 
 of his tent. He was always lazy. It was difficult 
 to believe that he ever climbed or dug or dived for 
 agates as Marie had said, so complete a picture he 
 seemed of inaction. The girl spoke a few words to 
 him in their native dialect, and he grumblingly 
 rose, shuffled into the interior of the wigwam, and 
 brought out two baskets. One was a shallow tray 
 filled with the finished heads in great variety of 
 material and color. There were white carnelian, 
 delicately striped with prophetic red, blood-stone 
 
105 TffE HEARTBREAK CAAfMO. 
 
 deep colored and hard as ruby, agates of every 
 shade and marking, flinty jasper, emerald-banded 
 malachite, delicate rose color, and purple ones 
 made from shells, and various crystals with whose 
 names Father Francis Xavier was unfamiliar. 
 There was one shading from dark green through 
 to red, only a drop of the latter color on the very 
 tip of the arrow where blood would first kiss 
 blood. Father Xavier looked at it in wondering 
 admiration, and at last asked Black Beaver what he 
 called it. 
 
 11 It is a devil-stone/' replied the Indian. 
 " More here," and he opened the deeper basket in 
 which were stored the unground and uncut stones, 
 and placed a superb gem in Father Xavier' s hand. 
 He had ground it sufficiently to show that it was in 
 two layers, white and green ; in this there was no 
 touch of red, but in every other respect it was the 
 handsomer stone. 
 
 "Will you sell it to me?" asked the priest. 
 " How much ?" 
 
 The Indian smiled with an expression strangely 
 like that of his daughter, and put it back with 
 alacrity in his basket, saying, " Me no sell big 
 devil-stone. No money buy." 
 
 "What do you mean to do with it ?" asked 
 Father Xavier. 
 
 "Make arrow-headvery hungry no blood;" 
 and he indicated the absence of the red tint. 
 "Very hungry kill very much never have 
 enough .'" 
 
THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO, 103 
 
 " Then you mean to keep it and use it yourself ?" 
 
 " No," said the other. "Me no hunt game 
 hunt stones." 
 
 " What will you do with it ?" asked the puzzled 
 priest. 
 
 "Give it away," said Black Beaver "give 
 away to greatest " 
 
 " Chief ?" asked Father Xavier. 
 
 Black Beaver shook his head. 
 
 " Friend then ?" 
 
 "No," grunted the arrow-head maker "give 
 away to big enemy f 
 
 "What did he mean by that?" Father Xavier 
 asked of Marie on their way back to the mission. 
 And the girl explained the superstition that Indians 
 of their own tribe never killed an enemy with ordi- 
 nary weapons, for fear that his soul would wait for 
 theirs in the Happy Hunting Grounds ; but if he 
 was shot with a devil-stone, the soul could not fly 
 upward, but would sink through all eternity, until 
 it reached the deepest spot of all the great lakes 
 under the stony gaze of the Doom Woman. 
 
 When he inquired further as to the whereabouts 
 of the Doom Woman's residence he ascertained 
 that she was only a sharp cliff among " the pict- 
 ured rocks of sandstone" of the upper lake a cliff 
 that viewed from either side maintained its resem- 
 blance to a female profile looking sternly down at 
 the water beneath it, which was here believed to 
 be unfathomable. The Doom Woman still exists. 
 Strange to say, under its sharp-cut features a 
 
104 THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO. 
 
 steamer has since been wrecked and sunk, and its 
 expression of gloomy fate is now awfully appro- 
 priate. Marie had visited " the great Sea Water" 
 with her father. Nature's titanic and fanciful fres- 
 coing and cameo-cutting had strongly wrought 
 upon her impressionable mind, and the old legends 
 and superstitions of paganism had been by no 
 means effaced by the very slight veneer of Chris- 
 tianity which she had received at the mission. 
 
 From this evening Father Xavier's manner 
 toward her changed. Her smile no longer seemed 
 to irritate him, and a close observer might have 
 noticed that she smiled less than formerly. He 
 talked with her more, paid closer attention to her 
 studies, made her little presents from time to time, 
 and spoke to her always with studied gentleness 
 that was quite foreign to his nature. And Marie 
 watched him at work over his stones, spent her 
 spare time in rambling in search of those which she 
 had learned he liked, and laid upon his table with- 
 out remark each new discovery of quartz, or crys- 
 tal, or pebble. She had been in the habit of mak- 
 ing little boxes which she decorated with a rude 
 mosaic of small shells, and Father Xavier noticed 
 that these gradually acquired more taste and were 
 arranged with some eye to the harmonies of color, 
 while the forms were copied with Chinese accuracy 
 from patterns on the bindings of his books or the 
 borders of the religious pictures. Marie was de- 
 veloping under an art education which, if carried 
 far enough, might effect great things. She even 
 
THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO. 1 6$ 
 
 managed his graving tools with a good deal of ac- 
 curacy, copying designs which he set her, until he 
 wondered what his father would have thought of 
 so apt an apprentice. 
 
 Suddenly, one morning in midsummer, Marie 
 announced that she should leave them. Her father 
 was going on a long expedition for stones to the 
 head of Lake Superior, and she did not know when 
 she might return. As she imparted this informa- 
 tion she watched Father Xavier from the corner of 
 her eye, and something of the old childish smile 
 reappeared as he showed that he was really an- 
 noyed. 
 
 The summer passed profitably for the Black 
 Beaver, and he began to think of returning to St. 
 Ignace with his small store of valuable stones 
 before the fall gales should set in. He was just a 
 few days too late. When within sight of Michil- 
 limackinac a storm arose driving them out upon 
 the open lake, and playing with their canoe as 
 though it were a cockle-shell. When the storm 
 abated a cloudy night had set in ; no land was visi- 
 ble in any direction ; they had completely lost 
 their direction, and knew not toward which point to 
 seek the shore. Paddling at hazard might take 
 them further out into the centre of the lake, and 
 indeed they were too worn with battling with the 
 storm to do any more than keep the tossed skiff 
 from capsizing. Morning dawned wet and gray, 
 after a miserable night ; they were drenched to the 
 skin, and almost spent with weariness and hunger, 
 
Io6 THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO. 
 
 and now that a wan and ghostly daylight had 
 come they were no better for it, for an impene- 
 trable fog shut them in on every side. Marie and 
 her mother began to pray. The Black Beaver sat 
 dogged and inert, with upturned face, regarding 
 the sky. 
 
 The day wore by wearily ; some of the time they 
 paddled straight onward, with sinking hearts, know- 
 ing not toward what they were going, and at others 
 rested with the inaction of despair. When the 
 position of the bright spot which meant the sun 
 told that it lacked but an hour of sunset, and the 
 clouds seemed to be thickening rather than dis- 
 persing, the Black Beaver gave a long and hideous 
 howl. His wife and daughter shuddered when 
 they heard it, as would any one, for a more un- 
 earthly and discordant cry was never uttered by 
 man or beast ; but they had double reason to shud- 
 der ; it was the death cry of their nation. 
 
 " We can never live through another night," 
 said he, and he covered his face with his arms. 
 
 " Father," said Marie, " try what power there is 
 in the white man's God. Say that you will give 
 Him your devil-stone if He will save us now." 
 
 " The priest may have it," said the Black 
 Beaver, and he uncovered his face and sat up as 
 though expecting a miracle. And the miracle 
 came. The sun was setting behind them, and in 
 front, somewhat above the horizon, the clouds 
 parted, forming a circle about a white cross which 
 hung suspended in the air. They all saw it dis- 
 
THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO. 107 
 
 tinctly, but only for a few moments ; then the 
 clouds closed and the vision vanished. With new 
 hope the little party rowed toward the spot where 
 they had last seen it, and through the fog they 
 could dimly discern the outlines of the coast they 
 were nearing land. A little further on, and a vil- 
 lage was visible, which gained a more and more 
 familiar aspect as they approached. Night settled 
 down before they reached it, but ere their feet 
 touched the land they had recognized the mission 
 of St. Ignace. The cross was not a vision. The 
 clouds had parted to show them the great white 
 landmark and sign which Father Ignatius had 
 raised upon the little knoll. 
 
 The next day the Black Beaver unearthed his 
 devil-stone, and fastening a silver chain to it, was 
 about to carry it away and attach it to the cross, 
 which was already loaded with the gifts of the 
 little colony ; but Marie took it from his hand. 
 " I will give it to the good priest myself," she 
 said. " He may see fit to place it on the image of 
 the Virgin in the church." 
 
 A few days later Marie placed the coveted stone 
 in Father Xavier's hand ; but what was his bitter 
 disappointment to find that she had marred the ex- 
 quisite thing by a rude attempt at a delineation 
 upon it of the vision of the cross. She had care- 
 fully chiselled away the milky white layer, except- 
 ing on the crests of some very primitive represen- 
 tations of waves, and within the awkwardly plain 
 cross in the centre of the gem. All his hopes of 
 
lo THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO. 
 
 cutting a face upon this lovely jewel were crush- 
 ed ; it was ruined by her unskilful work. Father 
 Xavier was completely master of his own emotions. 
 He took the stone without remark, and hung it, as 
 Marie requested, about the neck of the Madonna. 
 Each day as he said mass the sight of the mutilated 
 jewel roused within him resentful feelings against 
 poor, well-wishing little Marie. He had been very 
 kind to her since he had first seen the stone in the 
 possession of her father, but now it was worse than 
 before. He avoided her markedly, for the smile 
 which so annoyed him still lighted her face when- 
 ever she saw him, and there was in it a reproachful 
 sadness which was even more aggravating than its 
 simple childishness had been. 
 
 One day Father Xavier, in turning over his 
 papers, came across an old etching of Venus rising 
 from the sea. The figure, with its outstretched 
 arms, suggested a possibility to him. He made a 
 careful tracing of it, took it to the church, and laid 
 it upon the stone. All of its outlines came within 
 the white cross ; there was still hope for the cameo. 
 All that winter Father Xavier toiled upon it, ex- 
 hausting his utmost skill, but never exhausting his 
 patience. His chief trial was in the extreme hard- 
 ness of the stone, which rapidly wore out his grav- 
 ing tools. At last it was finished, and Father 
 Xavier confessed to himself, in all humility, that 
 he had not only never executed so delicate a piece 
 of workmanship, but he had never seen its equal. 
 Every curve of the exquisite-hued waves was 
 
THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO. 109 
 
 studied from the swell that sometimes swept 
 grandly in from the lake on the long reef of rocks 
 a few miles above St. Ignace. The form of the 
 goddess was modelled from his remembrance of 
 the Greek antique. It was a gem worthy of an 
 emperor. What should he do with it ? 
 
 As the spring ripened into summer, ambitious 
 thoughts flowered in Pere Francis Xavier's soul. 
 What a grand bishopric this whole western country 
 would make with its unexplored wealth of mines, 
 and furs, and forest ! Why should he be obliged 
 to make reports of the revenue which his -own 
 financiering had secured to the mission, to the 
 head at Montreal ? Why should not his reverence 
 the Lord Bishop Francis Xavier dwell in an epis- 
 copal palace built somewhere on these lakes, with 
 unlimited spiritual and temporal sway over all this 
 country ? To effect such a scheme it would .be 
 necessary for him to see both the King of France 
 and the Pope. He was not sure that even if he 
 could return to Europe immediately, he had the 
 influence necessary in either quarter, but the cameo 
 was a step in the right direction. Something of 
 the same thought occurred at the same time to the 
 Bishop of Montreal. Father Xavier's reports 
 showed the mission to be in a flourishing condi- 
 tion. The first struggles of the pioneer were 
 over. Father Xavier must not be left in too luxu- 
 rious a position. The Chevalier La Salle was now 
 fitting out his little band designed to explore 
 the lakes and follow the Mississippi from its 
 
HO THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO. 
 
 source to the Gulf. A most important expedition ; 
 it would be well that the Jesuit fathers should share 
 in the honors if it proved successful, and if the 
 little party perished in its hazardous enterprise, 
 Pere Francis Xavier could perhaps be spared as 
 easily as any member of his spiritual army. 
 
 And so, in the summer of 1679, the Chevalier 
 sailed up the Lac du Dauphin, as Lake Erie was 
 then called, into the Lac d'Orleans, or Huron, 
 carrying letters in which Pere Francis Xavier was 
 ordered to leave his charge for a time in order to 
 render all the assistance in his power to the ex- 
 plorers. The Bishop of Montreal could never have 
 guessed with what heartfelt joy his command was 
 obeyed. Father Xavier was tired of this peaceful 
 life, tired of " the endless wash of melancholy 
 waves," of the short cool summers, and long white 
 blank of winter ; tired of inaction, of the lack of 
 stimulating surroundings, of the gentleness of 
 Father Ignatius and Marie's haunting smile. 
 Here, too, might be the very occasion he craved of 
 making himself famous and deserving of reward as 
 an explorer. It was true that he started as a sub- 
 ordinate, but that was no reason that he should 
 return in the same capacity. Marie had served the 
 noble guests with pleasant alacrity, passing the 
 rainbow-tinted trout caught as well as broiled by 
 her own hand, and the luscious huckleberries in 
 tasteful baskets of her own braiding, and Tontz 
 Main de Fer, the chivalric companion and friend 
 of La Salle, was moved like Geraint, served by 
 
THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO. in 
 
 Enid, " to stoop and kiss the dainty little thumb 
 that crossed the trencher." The salutation was 
 received with unconscious dignity by little Marie ; 
 once only was Fere Frangois Xavier annoyed by 
 the absence of a display of childish pleasure in an 
 ever-ready smile. 
 
 History tells how trial and privation of every 
 kind waited on this little band of heroic men ; how 
 hunger, and cold, and fever dogged their steps ; 
 how the Indians proved treacherous and hostile ; 
 how, having reached central Illinois, after incredi- 
 ble exertion, they found themselves in the dead of 
 winter unable to proceed further, and surrounded 
 by tribes incited against them by some unknown 
 enemy. A fatality seemed to hang over them ; 
 suspicious occurrences indicated that they had a 
 traitor among their number, but he was never dis- 
 covered. La Salle did not despair or abandon the 
 enterprise ; but when six of his most trusted men 
 mutinied and deserted, he lost hope, and became 
 seized with a presentiment that he would never 
 return from his expedition. Father Xavier was his 
 confidant as well as confessor, but he seems not to 
 have been able to disperse the gloom which settled 
 over the leader's mind. Perhaps he did not en- 
 deavor to do so. Hopeless but still true to his 
 trust, La Salle constructed near Peoria a fort which 
 he named Crevecceur, in token of his despondency 
 and disappointment. Leaving Tontz Main de Fer 
 in command here with the greater part of his men, 
 he set out with five for Frontenac, on the 2d of 
 
112 THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO. 
 
 March, 1680, intending to return with supplies to 
 take command again of his party, and to proceed 
 southward. It was at this point that the most in- 
 explicable event of the entire enterprise occurred. 
 Before the party divided some one attempted to 
 poison the Chevalier La Salle. The poison was a 
 subtle and slow one, similar in its effects to those 
 used by the Borgia family ; the secret of its manu- 
 facture was thought to be unknown out of Italy. 
 Fortunately he had taken an under or overdose of 
 it, and the effects manifested themselves only in a 
 long illness. He was too far on his journey from 
 Fort Heartbreak when stricken down to return to 
 it, and was mercifully received and nursed back to 
 health by the friendly Pottawottamies. 
 
 While the leader was lying sick in an Indian 
 lodge, the knightly Tontz, ignorant of the fate of 
 his friend, was having his troubles at the little fort 
 of Heartbreak. Pere Frangois Xavier had re- 
 mained with him, and aided him with counsels and 
 personal exertions ; he had made himself so indis- 
 pensable that he was now lieutenant ; if anything 
 should happen to Tontz, he would be commander. 
 He was secretary of the expedition, drew careful 
 maps, and made voluminous daily entries in a 
 journal, which was afterward found to be a marvel 
 of painstaking both in the facts and fictions which 
 it contained. Scanty mention was there of La 
 Salle and Tontz Main de Fer, and much of Pere 
 Fran9ois Xavier, but it was clear, explicit, depict- 
 ing the advantages of an acquisition of this terri- 
 
THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO. 113 
 
 tory to the crown of France in glowing terms, and 
 strongly advising that the man who had most dis- 
 tinguished himself in the difficulties of its discovery 
 should be appointed as governor, or baron, under 
 the royal authority. 
 
 While Father Xavier was compiling this remark- 
 able piece of authorship, the Iroquois descended in 
 warlike array upon the somewhat friendly disposed 
 Illinois Indians, in whose midst Fort Crevecceur 
 had been built. The suspicious Indian mind im- 
 mediately connected the advent of their enemies 
 with the building of the fort, and regarded the 
 little garrison with distrust. Tontz, at the instance 
 of Father Xavier, presented himself to their chief, 
 and offered to do anything in his power to prove 
 his friendly intentions. The chief accepted his 
 services, and sent him as ambassador to inquire 
 into the cause of the coming of the Iroquois. This 
 mission had nearly been his last, for Tontz was 
 received with stabs, and hardly allowed to give the 
 message of the chief. His ill-treatment at the 
 hands of their enemies did not reassure the sus- 
 picious Illinois, who ordered Tontz to immediately 
 evacuate the fort and return with his forces to the 
 country whence he had come. In his wounded con- 
 dition such a journey was extremely hazardous, and 
 it must have been with grave doubts as to his sur- 
 viving it that Father Xavier took temporary com- 
 mand of the returning expedition. 
 
 It was in the spring of 1681. Father Xavier had 
 been absent nearly two years. Father Ignatius 
 
114 THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO. 
 
 missed him sadly all the life and fire seemed to 
 have gone out of the mission. Even Marie moved 
 about her work in a listless, languid way, which 
 contrasted markedly with her once lithe and rapid 
 movements. They had not once heard from the 
 explorers, and Father Ignatius shook his head 
 sadly, and feared that he would never see his 
 energetic colleague again. The Black Beaver had 
 slept through the last months of winter, and, as 
 with the general awakening of spring the bears 
 came out of their dens, and the snakes sunned 
 themselves near their holes, he too stretched himself 
 lazily and awoke to a consciousness of what was 
 passing around him. In the first place something 
 was amiss with Marie. When she came to the 
 wigwam it was not to chat merrily of the affairs of 
 the mission. She did not braid as many baskets as 
 formerly, and no longer showed him new patterns 
 in shell mosaic on the lids of little boxes. He was 
 a curious old man, and he soon drew her secret 
 from her. Marie loved Pere Frangois Xavier, and 
 he had gone. 
 
 The Black Beaver went down to the mission one 
 evening and had a long talk with Father Ignatius. 
 He ascertained first that Pere Francois Xavier 
 really meant to return ; then, with all the dignity of 
 an old feudal baron, he offered Marie as a bride for 
 his spiritual son. Very gently the good Pere 
 Ignace explained that Romish priests were so 
 nearly in the kingdom of heaven that the question 
 of marrying and giving in marriage was not for 
 
THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO. 115 
 
 them to consider. The Black Beaver went home, 
 told no one of his visit, and for several days in- 
 dulged in the worst drunken spree of which he was 
 capable. When he came out of it he announced to 
 his wife and Marie that he was going away on his 
 annual trip for stores, but that they need not 
 accompany him. 
 
 Marie knelt as usual in the little church on the 
 evening of the day on which her father had gone 
 away. Pere Frangois Xavier had replaced the 
 cameo on the Virgin's breast before he went ; it 
 was a safer place than the vault of a bank would 
 have been, had such a thing existed in the country. 
 There was no one in the island sacrilegious enough 
 to rob the church. Marie had gazed at the stone 
 each time that she repeated the prayer which he 
 had taught her. She looked up now, and it was 
 gone. 
 
 Half way upon their northward route, Tontz's 
 band were struggling wearily on when they were 
 met by a solitary Indian, who, though he carried a 
 long bow, had not an unfriendly aspect. He eyed 
 the little band silently as they passed by him in 
 defile, then ran after them, and inquired if the 
 Pere Francois Xavier, of Mission St. Ignace, was 
 not of their number. He was informed that the 
 reverend father had remained a short distance be- 
 hind to write in his journal, but that he would soon 
 overtake them ; and he was warmly pressed to 
 remain with them if he had messages for the priest, 
 and give them to him when he arrived ; but the 
 
Ii6 THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO. 
 
 Indian shook his head and passed on in the direction 
 in which they told him he would be likely to meet 
 Father Xavier. The party halted and waited hour 
 after hour for the priest, but he did not come. 
 Finally two went back in search, and found him 
 lying upon the sod with upturned face the place 
 where he had written last in his journal marked by 
 a few drops of his heart's blood, and the long shaft 
 of an arrow protruding from his breast. They 
 drew it out, but the arrow-head had been attached, 
 as is the custom in some Indian tribes, by means 
 of a soft wax, which is melted by the warmth of 
 the body, and it remained in the heart. Father 
 Xavier had been dead some hours. They buried 
 him where they found him, and proceeded on their 
 march. Tontz recovered on the way. They 
 reached Michillimackinac in safety, where they 
 were joined two months later by La Salle ; and the 
 world knows the result of his second expedition. 
 
 Little Marie learned by degrees to smile again, 
 and in after years married another arrow-head 
 maker, as swarthy and as shaggy as the Black 
 Beaver. There is no moral to my story except that 
 of poetic justice. Pere Francois Xavier had sown 
 a plentiful crop of stratagems, and he learned in 
 the lonely forest that " Whatsoever a man soweth 
 that shall he also reap." 
 
 Meanwhile to all but you, my readers, the 
 Crevecceur cameo remains as great a mystery as 
 ever. 
 
MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 
 
 BY ALBERT WEBSTER. 
 
 I. 
 
 FOR a long time blithe and fragile Miss Eunice, 
 demure, correct in deportment, and yet not 
 wholly without enthusiasm, thought that day the 
 unluckiest in her life on which she first took into 
 her hands that unobtrusive yet dramatic book, 
 " Miss Crofutt's Missionary Labors in the English 
 Prisons." 
 
 It came to her notice by mere accident, not by 
 favor of proselyting friends ; and such was its 
 singular material, that she at once devoured it with 
 avidity. As its title suggests, it was the history of 
 the ameliorating endeavors of a woman in criminal 
 society, and it contained, perforce, a large amount 
 of tragic and pathetic incident. But this last was 
 so blended and involved with what Miss Eunice 
 
 #** Atlantic Monthly ', July^ 1873. 
 
n8 MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 
 
 would have skipped as commonplace, that she was 
 led to digest the whole volume statistics, phi- 
 losophy, comments, and all. She studied the 
 analysis of the atmosphere of cells, the properties 
 and waste of wheaten flour, the cost of clothing to 
 the general government, the whys and wherefores 
 of crime and evil-doing ; and it was not long before 
 there was generated within her bosom a fine and 
 healthy ardor to emulate this practical and cour- 
 ageous pattern. 
 
 She was profoundly moved by the tales of mis- 
 sionary labors proper. She was filled with joy to 
 read that Miss Crofutt and her lieutenants some- 
 times cracked and broke away the formidable husks 
 which enveloped divine kernels in the hearts of 
 some of the wretches, and she frequently wept at 
 the stories of victories gained over monsters whose 
 defences of silence and stolidity had suddenly fallen 
 into ruin above the slow but persistent sapping of 
 constant kindness. Acute tinglings and chilling 
 thrills would pervade her entire body when she 
 read that on Christmas every wretch seemed to 
 become for that day, at least, a gracious man ; that 
 the sight of a few penny tapers, or the possession 
 of a handful of sweet stuff, or a spray of holly, or 
 a hot-house bloom, would appear to convert the 
 worst of them into children. Her heart would 
 swell to learn how they acted during the one poor 
 hour of yearly freedom in the prison-yards ; that 
 they swelled their chests ; that they ran ; that they 
 took long strides ; that the singers anxiously tried 
 
MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 119 
 
 their voices, now grown husky ; that the athletes 
 wrestled only to find their limbs stiff and their arts 
 forgotten ; that the gentlest of them lifted their 
 faces to the broad sky and spent the sixty minutes 
 in a dreadful gazing at the clouds. 
 
 The pretty student gradually became possessed 
 with a rage. She desired to convert some one, to 
 recover some estray, to reform some wretch. 
 
 She regretted that she lived in America, and not 
 in England, where the most perfect rascals were to 
 be found ; she was sorry that the gloomy, sin- 
 saturated prisons which were the scenes of Miss 
 Crofutt's labors must always be beyond her ken. 
 
 There was no crime in the family or the neighbor- 
 hood against which she might strive ; no one whom 
 she knew was even austere ; she had never met a 
 brute ; all her rascals were newspaper rascals. For 
 aught she knew, this tranquillity and good-will 
 might go on forever, without affording her an 
 opportunity. She must be denied the smallest con- 
 tact with these frightful faces and figures, these bars 
 and cages, these deformities of the mind and heart, 
 these curiosities of conscience, shyness, skill, and 
 daring ; all these dramas of reclamation, all these 
 scenes of fervent gratitude, thankfulness, and in- 
 toxicating liberty all or any of these things must 
 never come to be the lot of her eyes ; and she gave 
 herself up to the most poignant regret. 
 
 But one day she was astonished to discover that 
 all of these delights lay within half an hour's 
 journey of her home ; and moreover, that there 
 
120 MJSS EUNICE* S GLOVE. 
 
 was approaching an hour which was annually set 
 apart for the indulgence of the inmates of the 
 prison in question. She did not stop to ask her- 
 self, as she might well have done, how it was that 
 she had so completely ignored this particular in- 
 stitution, which was one of the largest and best 
 conducted in the country, especially when her 
 desire to visit one was so keen ; but she straight- 
 way set about preparing for her intended visit in a 
 manner which she fancied Miss Crofutt would have 
 approved, had she been present. 
 
 She resolved, in the most radical sense of the 
 word, to be alive. She jotted on some ivory 
 tablets, with a gold pencil, a number of hints to 
 assist her in her observations. For example : 
 " Phrenological development ; size of cells ; 
 ounces of solid and liquid ; tissue-producing food ; 
 were mirrors allowed ? if so, what was the effect ? 
 jimmy and skeleton-key, character of ; canary 
 birds : query, would not their admission into every 
 cell animate in the human prisoners a similar buoy- 
 ancy ? to urge upon the turnkeys the use of the 
 Spanish garrote in place of the present distressing 
 gallows ; to find the proportion of Orthodox and 
 Unitarian prisoners to those of other persuasions." 
 But beside these and fifty other similar memo- 
 randa, the enthusiast cast about her for something 
 practical to do. 
 
 She hit upon the capital idea of flowers. She at 
 once ordered from a gardener of taste two hundred 
 bouquets, or rather nosegays, which she intended 
 
MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 121 
 
 for distribution among the prisoners she was about 
 to visit, and she called upon her father for the 
 money. 
 
 Then she began to prepare her mind. She 
 wished to define the plan from which she was to 
 make her contemplations. She settled that she 
 would be grave and gentle. She would be ex- 
 quisitely careful not to hold herself too much aloof, 
 and yet not to step beyond the bounds of that 
 sweet reserve that she conceived must have been at 
 once Miss Crofutt's sword and buckler. 
 
 Her object was to awaken in the most abandoned 
 criminals a realization that the world, in its most 
 benignant phase, was still open to them ; that 
 society, having obtained a requital for their 
 wickedness, was ready to embrace them again on 
 proof of their repentance. 
 
 She determined to select at the outset two or 
 three of the most remarkable monsters, and turn 
 the full head of her persuasions exclusively upon 
 them, instead of sprinkling (as it were) the whole 
 community with her grace. She would arouse at 
 first a very few, and then a few more, and a few 
 more, and so on ad infinitum. 
 
 It was on a hot July morning that she journeyed 
 on foot over the bridge which led to the prison, and 
 there walked a man behind her carrying the 
 flowers. 
 
 Her eyes were cast down, this being the position 
 most significant of her spirit. Her pace was equal, 
 firm, and rapid ; she made herself oblivious of the 
 
122 MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 
 
 bustle of the streets, and she repented that her 
 vanity had permitted her to wear white and lavender, 
 these making a combination in her dress which she 
 had been told became her well. She had no right 
 to embellish herself. Was she going to the races, 
 or a match, or a kettle-drum, that she must dandify 
 herself with particular shades of color ? She 
 
 stopped short, blushing. Would Miss Cro . 
 
 But there was no help for it now. It was too late 
 to turn back. She proceeded, feeling that the odds 
 were against her. 
 
 She approached her destination in such a way 
 that the prison came into view suddenly. She 
 paused, with a feeling of terror. The enormous 
 gray building rose far above a lofty white wall of 
 stone, and a sense of its prodigious strength and 
 awful gloom overwhelmed her. On the top of the 
 wall, holding by an iron railing, there stood a man 
 with a rifle trailing behind him. He was looking 
 down into the yard inside. His attitude of watch- 
 fulness, his weapon, the unseen thing that was 
 being thus fiercely guarded, provoked in her such 
 a revulsion that she came to a standstill. 
 
 What in the name of mercy had she come here 
 for ? She began to tremble. The man with the 
 flowers came up to her and halted. From the 
 prison there came at this instant the loud clang of 
 a bell, and succeeding this a prolonged and reso- 
 nant murmur which seemed to increase. Miss 
 Eunice looked hastily around her. There were 
 several people who must have heard the same 
 
MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 1^3 
 
 sounds that reached her ears, but they were not 
 alarmed. In fact, one or two of them seemed to 
 be going to the prison direct. The courage of our 
 philanthropist began to revive. A woman in a 
 brick house opposite suddenly pulled up a window- 
 curtain and fixed an amused and inquisitive look 
 upon her. 
 
 This would have sent her into a thrice-heated 
 furnace. " Come, if you please," she commanded 
 the man, and she marched upon the jail. 
 
 She entered at first a series of neat offices in a 
 wing of the structure, and then she came to a small 
 door made of black bars of iron. A man stood on 
 the farther side of this, with a bunch of large keys. 
 When he saw Miss Eunice he unlocked and opened 
 the door, and she passed through. 
 
 She found that she had entered a vast, cool, and 
 lofty cage, one hundred feet in diameter ; it had 
 an iron floor, and there were several people stroll- 
 ing about here and there. Through several grated 
 apertures the sunlight streamed with strong effect, 
 and a soft breeze swept around the cavernous 
 apartment. 
 
 Without the cage, before her and on either hand, 
 were three more wings of the building, and in these 
 were the prisoners' corridors. 
 
 At the moment she entered, the men were leaving 
 their cells, and mounting the stone stairs in regular 
 order, on their way to the chapel above. The 
 noisy files went up and down and to the right and 
 to the left, shuffling and scraping and making a 
 
124 MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 
 
 great tumult. The men were dressed in blue, and 
 were seen indistinctly through the lofty gratings. 
 From above and below and all around her there 
 came the metallic snapping of bolts and the rattle 
 of moving bars ; and so significant was everything 
 of savage repression and impending violence, that 
 Miss Eunice was compelled to say faintly to herself, 
 " I am afraid it will take a little time to get used 
 to all this." 
 
 She rested upon one of the seats in the rotunda 
 while the chapel services were being conducted, 
 and she thus had an opportunity to regain a portion 
 of her lost heart. She felt wonderfully dwarfed 
 and belittled, and her plan of recovering souls had, 
 in some way or other, lost much of its feasibility. 
 A glance at her bright flowers revived her a little, 
 as did also a surprising, long-drawn roar from over 
 her head, to the tune of ' 'America. ' ' The prisoners 
 were singing. 
 
 Miss Eunice was not alone in her intended work, 
 for there were several other ladies, also with sup- 
 plies of flowers, who with her awaited until the 
 prisoners should descend into the yard and be let 
 loose before presenting them with what they had 
 brought. Their common purpose made them 
 acquainted, and by the aid of chat and sympathy 
 they fortified each other. 
 
 Half an hour later the five hundred men de- 
 scended from the chapel to the yard, rushing out 
 upon its bare broad surface as you have seen a 
 burst of water suddenly irrigate a road-bed. A 
 
MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 125 
 
 hoarse and tremendous shout at once filled the air, 
 and echoed against the walls like the threat of a 
 volcano. Some of the wretches waltzed and spun 
 around like dervishes, some threw somersaults, 
 some folded their arms gravely and marched up 
 and down, some fraternized, some walked away 
 pondering, some took off their tall caps and sat 
 down in the shade, some looked toward the rotunda 
 with expectation, and there were those who looked 
 toward it with contempt. 
 
 There led from the rotunda to the yard a flight 
 of steps. Miss Eunice descended these steps with 
 a quaking heart, and a turnkey shouted to the 
 prisoners over her head that she and others had 
 flowers for them. 
 
 No sooner had the words left his lips, than the 
 men rushed up pell-mell. 
 
 This was a crucial moment. 
 
 There thronged upon Miss Eunice an army of 
 men who were being punished for all the crimes in 
 the calendar. Each individual here had been caged 
 because he was either a highwayman, or a forger, 
 or a burglar, or a ruffian, or a thief, or a murderer. 
 The unclean and frightful tide bore down upon our 
 terrified missionary, shrieking and whooping. 
 Every prisoner thrust out his hand over the head 
 of the one in front of him, and the foremost 
 plucked at her dress. 
 
 She had need of courage. A sense of danger and 
 contamination impelled her to fly, but a gleam of 
 /eason in the midst of her distraction enabled her 
 
126 MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 
 
 to stand her ground. She forced herself to smile, 
 though she knew her face had grown pale. 
 
 She placed a bunch of flowers into an immense 
 hand which projected from a coarse blue sleeve in 
 front of her ; the owner of the hand was pushed 
 away so quickly by those who came after him that 
 Miss Eunice failed to see his face. Her tortured 
 ear caught a rough " Thank y', miss !" The 
 spirit of Miss Crofutt revived in a flash, and her 
 disciple thereafter possessed no lack of nerve. 
 
 She plied the crowd with flowers as long as they 
 lasted, and a jaunty self possession enabled her 
 finally to gaze without flinching at the mass of 
 depraved and wicked faces with which she was 
 surrounded. Instead of retaining her position 
 upon the steps, she gradually descended into the 
 yard, as did several other visitors. She began to 
 feel at home ; she found her tongue, and her color 
 came back again. She felt a warm pride in notic- 
 ing with what care and respect the prisoners treated 
 her gifts ; they carried them about with great ten- 
 derness, and some compared them with those of 
 their friends. 
 
 Presently she began to recall her plans. It 
 occurred to her to select her two or three villains. 
 For one, she immediately pitched upon a lean- 
 faced wretch in front of her. He seemed to be 
 old, for his back was bent and he leaned upon a 
 cane. His features were large, and they bore an 
 expression of profound gloom. His head was sunk 
 upon his breast, his lofty conical cap was pulled 
 
MISS EUNICE' S GLOVE. 127 
 
 over his ears, and his shapeless uniform seemed to 
 weigh him down, so infirm was he. 
 
 Miss Eunice spoke to him. He did not hear ; 
 she spoke again. He glanced at her like a flash, 
 but without moving ; this was at once followed by 
 a scrutinizing look. He raised his head, and then 
 he turned toward her gravely. 
 
 The solemnity of his demeanor nearly threw 
 Miss Eunice off her balance, but she mastered her- 
 self by beginning to talk rapidly. The prisoner 
 leaned over a little to hear better. Another came 
 up, and two or three turned around to look. She 
 bethought herself of an incident related in Miss 
 Crofutt's book, and she essayed its recital. It con- 
 cerned a lawyer who was once pleading in a French 
 criminal court in behalf of a man whose crime had 
 been committed under the influence of dire want. 
 In his plea he described the case of another whom 
 he knew who had been punished with a just but 
 short imprisonment instead of a long one, which 
 the judge had been at liberty to impose, but from 
 which he humanely refrained. Miss Eunice 
 happily remembered the words of the lawyer : 
 " That man suffered like the wrong-doer that he 
 was. He knew his punishment was just. There- 
 fore there lived perpetually in his breast an impulse 
 toward a better life which was not suppressed and 
 stifled by the five years he passed within the walls 
 of the jail. He came forth and began to labor. 
 He toiled hard. He struggled against averted 
 faces and cold words, and he began to rise. He 
 
128 MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 
 
 secreted nothing, faltered at nothing, and never 
 stumbled. He succeeded ; men took off their hats 
 to him once more ; he became wealthy, honorable, 
 God-fearing. I, gentlemen, am that man, that 
 criminal." As she quoted this last declaration, 
 Miss Eunice erected herself with burning eyes and 
 touched herself proudly upon the breast. A flush 
 crept into her cheeks, and her nostrils dilated, and 
 she grew tall. 
 
 She came back to earth again, and found herself 
 surrounded with the prisoners. She was a little 
 startled. 
 
 " Ah, that was good !" ejaculated the old man 
 upon whom she had fixed her eyes. Miss Eunice 
 felt an inexpressible sense of delight. 
 
 Murmurs of approbation came from all of her 
 listeners, especially from one on her right hand. 
 She looked around at him pleasantly. 
 
 But the smile faded from her lips on beholding 
 him. He was extremely tall and very powerful. 
 He overshadowed her. His face was large, ugly, 
 and forbidding ; his gray hair and beard were 
 cropped close, his eyebrows met at the bridge of 
 his nose and overhung his large eyes like a screen. 
 His lips were very wide, and, being turned down- 
 ward at the corners, they gave him a dolorous 
 expression. His lower jaw was square and pro- 
 truding, and a pair of prodigious white ears pro- 
 jected from beneath his sugar-loaf cap. He seemed 
 to take his cue from the old man, for he repeated 
 his sentiment. 
 
MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 129 
 
 " Yes," said he, with a voice which broke alter- 
 nately into a roar and a whisper, " that was a good 
 story." 
 
 " Y-yes," faltered Miss Eunice, " and it has the 
 merit of being t-rue." 
 
 He replied with a nod, and looked absently ove* 
 her head while he rubbed the nap upon his chin 
 with his hand. Miss Eunice discovered that his 
 knee touched the skirt of her dress, and she was 
 about to move in order to destroy this contact, 
 when she remembered that Miss Crofutt would 
 probably have cherished the accident as a promote! 
 of a valuable personal influence, so she allowed it 
 to remain. The lean-faced man was not to be 
 mentioned in the same breath with this one, there- 
 fore she adopted the superior villain out of hand. 
 
 She began to approach him. She asked him 
 where he lived, meaning to discover whence he had 
 come. He replied in the same mixture of roar and 
 whisper, " Six undered un one, North Wing." 
 
 Miss Eunice grew scarlet. Presently she re- 
 covered sufficiently to pursue some inquiries re- 
 specting the rules and customs of the prison. She 
 did not feel that she was interesting her friend, yet 
 it seemed clear that he did not wish to go away. 
 His answers were curt, yet he swept his cap off his 
 head, implying by the act a certain reverence, 
 which Miss Eunice's vanity permitted her to exult 
 at. Therefore she became more loquacious than 
 ever. Some men came up to speak with the 
 prisoner, but he shook them off, and remained in an 
 
130 MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 
 
 attitude of strict attention, with his chin on his 
 hand, looking now at the sky, now at the ground, 
 and now at Miss Eunice. 
 
 In handling the flowers her gloves had been 
 stained, and she now held them in her fingers, 
 nervously twisting them as she talked. In the 
 course of time she grew short of subjects, and, as 
 her listener suggested nothing, several lapses 
 occurred ; in one of them she absently spread her 
 gloves out in her palms, meanwhile wondering 
 how the English girl acted under similar circum- 
 stances. 
 
 Suddenly a large hand slowly interposed itself 
 between her eyes and her gloves, and then with- 
 drew, taking one of the soiled trifles with it. 
 
 She was surprised, but the surprise was pleasur- 
 able. She said nothing at first. The prisoner 
 gravely spread his prize out upon his own palm, 
 and after looking at it carefully, he rolled it up 
 into a tight ball and thrust it deep in an inner 
 pocket. 
 
 This act made the philanthropist aware that she 
 had made progress. She rose insensibly to the 
 elevation of patron, and she made promises to come 
 frequently and visit her ward and to look in upon 
 him when he was at work ; while saying this she 
 withdrew a little from the shade his huge figure had 
 supplied her with. 
 
 He thrust his hands into his pockets, but he 
 hastily took them out again. Still he said nothing 
 and hung his head. It was while she was in thv 
 
MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 131 
 
 mood of a conqueror that Miss Eunice went away. 
 She felt a touch of repugnance at stepping from 
 before his eyes a free woman, therefore she took 
 pains to go when she thought he was not looking. 
 
 She pointed him out to a turnkey, who told her 
 he was expiating the sins of assault and burglarious 
 entry. Outwardly Miss Eunice looked grieved, 
 but within she exulted that he was so emphatically 
 a rascal. 
 
 When she emerged from the cool, shadowy, and 
 frowning prison into the gay sunlight, she experi- 
 enced a sense of bewilderment. The significance 
 of a lock and a bar seemed greater on quitting 
 them than it had when she had perceived them 
 first. The drama of imprisonment and punishment 
 oppressed her spirit with tenfold gloom now that 
 she gazed upon the brilliancy and freedom of the 
 outer world. That she and everybody around her 
 were permitted to walk here and there at will, 
 without question and limit, generated within her 
 an indefinite feeling of gratitude ; and the noise, 
 the colors, the creaking wagons, the myriad voices, 
 the splendid variety and change of all things ex- 
 cited a profound but at the same time a mournful 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Midway in her return journey she was shrieked 
 at from a carriage, which at once approached the 
 sidewalk. Within it were four gay maidens bound 
 to the Navy-Yard, from whence they were to sail, 
 with a large party of people of nice assortment, in 
 an experimental steamer, which was to be made 
 
132 MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 
 
 to go with kerosene lamps, in some way. They 
 seized upon her hands and cajoled her. Wouldn't 
 she go ? They were to sail down among the islands 
 (provided the oil made the wheels and things go 
 round), they were to lunch at Fort Warren, dine at 
 Fort Independence, and dance at Fort Winthrop. 
 Come, please go. Oh, do ! The Germanians were 
 to furnish the music. 
 
 Miss Eunice sighed, but shook her head. She had 
 not yet got the air of the prison out of her lungs, 
 nor the figure of her robber out of her eyes, nor 
 the sense of horror and repulsion out of her sym- 
 pathies. 
 
 At another time she would have gone to the ends 
 of the earth with such a happy crew, but now she 
 only shook her head again and was resolute. No 
 one could wring a reason from her, and the wonder- 
 ing quartet drove away. 
 
 II. 
 
 BEFORE the day went, Miss Eunice awoke to the 
 disagreeable fact that her plans had become 
 shrunken and contracted, that a certain something 
 had curdled her spontaneity, and that her ardor 
 had flown out at some crevice and had left her with 
 the dry husk of an intent. 
 
MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 133 
 
 She exerted herself to glow a little, but she 
 failed. She talked well at the tea-table, but she 
 did not tell about the glove. This matter plagued 
 her. She ran over in her mind the various doings 
 of Miss Crofutt, and she could not conceal from 
 herself that that lady had never given a glove to 
 one of her wretches ; no, nor had she ever per- 
 mitted the smallest approach to familiarity. 
 
 Miss Eunice wept a little. She was on the eve 
 of despairing. 
 
 In the silence of the night the idea presented 
 itself to her with a disagreeable baldness. There 
 was a thief over yonder that possessed a confidence 
 with her. 
 
 They had found it necessary to shut this man up 
 in iron and stone, and to guard him with a rifle 
 with a large leaden ball in it. 
 
 This villain was a convict. That was a terrible 
 word, one that made her blood chill. 
 
 She, the admired of hundreds and the beloved of 
 a family, had done a secret and shameful thing of 
 which she dared not tell. In these solemn hours 
 the madness of her act appalled her. 
 
 She asked herself what might not the fellow do 
 with the glove ? Surely he would exhibit it among 
 his brutal companions, and perhaps allow it to pass 
 to and fro among them. They would laugh and 
 joke with him, and he would laugh and joke in 
 return, and no doubt he would kiss it to their 
 great delight. Again, he might go to her friends, 
 and, by working upon their fears and by threaten- 
 
134 MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 
 
 ing an exposure of her, extort large sums of money 
 from them. Again, might he not harass her by 
 constantly appearing to her at all times and all 
 places and making all sorts of claims and de- 
 mands ? Again, might he not, with terrible in- 
 genuity, use it in connection with some false key 
 or some jack-in-the-box, or some dark-lantern, or 
 something, in order to effect his escape ; or might 
 he not tell the story times without count to some 
 wretched curiosity-hunters who would advertise 
 her folly all over the country, to her perpetual 
 misery ? 
 
 She became harnessed to this train of thought. 
 She could not escape from it. She reversed the 
 relation that she had hoped to hold toward such a 
 man, and she stood in his shadow, and not he in 
 hers. 
 
 In consequence of these ever-present fears and 
 sensations, there was one day, not very far in the 
 future, that she came to have an intolerable dread 
 of. This day was the one on which the sentence 
 of the man was to expire. She felt that he would 
 surely search for her ; and that he would find her 
 there could be no manner of doubt, for, in her 
 surplus of confidence, she had told him her full 
 name, inasmuch as he had told her his. 
 
 When she contemplated this new source of 
 terror, her peace of mind fled directly. So did her 
 plans for philanthropic labor. Not a shred re- 
 mained. The anxiety began to tell upon her, and 
 she took to peering out of a certain shaded window 
 
MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 135 
 
 that commanded the square in front of her house. 
 It was not long before she remembered that for 
 good behavior certain days were deducted from 
 the convicts' terms of imprisonment. Therefore, 
 her ruffian might be released at a moment not an- 
 ticipated by her. He might, in fact, be discharged 
 on any day. He might be on his way toward her 
 even now. 
 
 She was not very far from right, for suddenly 
 the man did appear. 
 
 He one day turned the corner, as she was looking 
 out at the window fearing that she should see him, 
 and came in a diagonal direction across the hot, 
 flagged square. 
 
 Miss Eunice's pulse leaped into the hundreds. 
 She glued her eyes upon him. There was no mis- 
 take. There was the red face, the evil eyes, the 
 large mouth, the gray hair, and the massive frame. 
 
 What should she do ? Should she hide ? Should 
 she raise the sash and shriek to the police ? Should 
 she arm herself with a knife ? or what ? In the 
 name of mercy, what ? She glared into the street. 
 He came on steadily, and she lost him, for he 
 passed beneath her. In a moment she heard the 
 jangle of the bell. She was petrified. She heard 
 his heavy step below. He had gone into the little 
 reception-room beside the door. He crossed to 
 a sofa opposite the mantel. She then heard him 
 get up and go to a window, then he walked about, 
 and then sat down ; probably upon a red leather 
 seat beside the window. 
 
136 MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 
 
 Meanwhile the servant was coming to announce 
 him. From some impulse, which was a strange 
 and sudden one, she eluded the maid, and rushed 
 headlong upon her danger. She never remembered 
 her descent of the stairs. She awoke to cool con- 
 templation of matters only to find herself entering 
 the room. 
 
 Had she made a mistake, after all ? It was a 
 question that was asked and answered in a flash. 
 This man was pretty erect and self-assured, but she 
 discerned in an instant that there was needed but 
 the blue woollen jacket and the tall cap to make 
 him the wretch of a month before. 
 
 He said nothing. Neither did she. He stood 
 up and occupied himself by twisting a button upon 
 his waistcoat. She, fearing a threat or a demand, 
 stood bridling to receive it. She looked at him 
 from top to toe with parted lips. 
 
 He glanced at her. She stepped back. He put 
 the rim of his cap in his mouth and bit it once or 
 twice, and then looked out at the window. Still 
 neither spoke. A voice at this instant seemed 
 impossible. 
 
 He glanced again like a flash. She shrank, and 
 put her hands upon the bolt. Presently he began 
 to stir. He put out one foot, and gradually moved 
 forward. He made another step. He was going 
 away. He had almost reached the door, when 
 Miss Eunice articulated, in a confused whisper, 
 " My my glove ; I wish you would give me my 
 glove." 
 
MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 137 
 
 He stopped, fixed his eyes upon her, and after 
 passing his fingers up and down upon the outside 
 of his coat, said, with deliberation, in a husky 
 voice, " No, mum. I'm goin' fur to keep it as long 
 as I live, if it takes two thousand years." 
 
 " Keep it !" she stammered. 
 
 " Keep it," he replied. 
 
 He gave her an untranslatable look. It neither 
 frightened her nor permitted her to demand the 
 glove more emphatically. She felt her cheeks and 
 temples and her hands grow cold, and midway in 
 the process of fainting she saw him disappear. He 
 vanished quietly. Deliberation and respect char- 
 acterized his movements, and there was not so 
 much as a jar of the outer door. 
 
 Poor philanthropist ! 
 
 This incident nearly sent her to a sick-bed. She 
 fully expected that her secret would appear in the 
 newspapers in full, and she lived in dread of the 
 onslaught of an angry and outraged society. 
 
 The more she reflected upon what her possi- 
 bilities had been and how she had misused them, the 
 iller and the more distressed she got. She grew 
 thin and spare of flesh. Her friends became fright- 
 ened. They began to dose her and to coddle her. 
 She looked at them with eyes full of supreme mel- 
 ancholy, and she frequently wept upon their shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 In spite of her precautions, however, a thunder- 
 bolt slipped in. 
 
 One day her father read at the table an item that 
 
138 MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 
 
 met his eye. He repeated it aloud, on account of 
 the peculiar statement in the last line : 
 
 "Detained on suspicion. A rough-looking 
 fellow, who gave the name of Gorman, was 
 arrested on the high-road to Tuxbridge Springs for 
 suspected complicity in some recent robberies in 
 the neighborhood. He was fortunately able to 
 give a pretty clear account of his late whereabouts, 
 and he was permitted to depart with a caution from 
 the justice. Nothing was found upon him but a 
 few coppers and an old kid glove wrapped in a bit 
 of paper." 
 
 Miss Eunice's soup spilled. This was too much, 
 and she fainted this time in right good earnest ; 
 and she straightway became an invalid of the 
 settled type. They put her to bed. The doctor 
 told her plainly that he knew she had a secret, but 
 she looked at him so imploringly that he refrained 
 from telling his fancies ; but he ordered an imme- 
 diate change of air. It was settled at once that 
 she should go to the " Springs" to Tuxbridge 
 Springs. The doctor knew there were young 
 people there, also plenty of dancing. So she 
 journeyed thither with her pa and her ma and with 
 pillows and servants. 
 
 They were shown to their rooms, and strong 
 porters followed with the luggage. One of them 
 had her huge trunk upon his shoulder. He put it 
 carefully upon the floor, and by so doing he dis- 
 closed the ex-prisoner to Miss Eunice and Miss 
 Eunice to himself. He was astonished, but he 
 
MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 139 
 
 remained silent. But she must needs be frightened 
 and fall into another fit of trembling. After an 
 awkward moment he went away, while she called 
 to her father and begged piteously to be taken 
 away from Tuxbridge Springs instantly. There 
 was no appeal. She hated, hated, HATED Tux- 
 bridge Springs, and she should die if she were 
 forced to remain. She rained tears. She would 
 give no reason, but she could not stay. No, 
 millions on millions could not persuade her ; go 
 she must. There was no alternative, The party 
 quitted the place within the hour, bag and bag- 
 gage. Miss Eunice's father was perplexed and 
 angry, and her mother would have been angry also 
 if she had dared. 
 
 They went to other springs and stayed a month, 
 but the patient's fright increased each day, and so 
 did her fever. She was full of distractions. In 
 her dreams everybody laughed at her as the one 
 who had flirted with a convict. She would ever 
 be pursued with the tale of her foolishness and 
 stupidity. Should he ever recover her self-respect 
 and confidence ? 
 
 She had become radically selfish. She forgot the 
 old ideas of noble-heartedness and self-denial, and 
 her temper had become weak and childish. She 
 did not meet her puzzle face to face, but she ran 
 away from it with her hands over her ears. Miss 
 Crofutt stared at her, and therefore she threw Miss 
 Crofutt's book into the fire. 
 
 After two days of unceasing debate, she called 
 
140 MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 
 
 her parents, and with the greatest agitation told 
 them all. 
 
 It so happened, in this case, that events, to use 
 a railroad phrase, made connection. 
 
 No sooner had Miss Eunice told her story than 
 the man came again. This time he was accom- 
 panied by a woman. 
 
 " Only get my glove away from him," sobbed 
 the unhappy one, " that is all I ask !" This was a 
 fine admission ! It was thought proper to bring 
 an officer, and so a strong one was sent for. 
 
 Meanwhile the couple had been admitted to the 
 parlor. Miss Eunice's father stationed the officei 
 at one door, while he, with a pistol, stood at the 
 other. Then Miss Eunice went into the apart- 
 ment. She was wasted, weak, and nervous. The 
 two villains got up as she came in, and bowed. 
 She began to tremble as usual, and laid hold upon 
 the mantelpiece. " How much do you want ?" she 
 gasped. 
 
 The man gave the woman a push with his fore- 
 finger. She stepped forward quickly with her 
 crest up. Her eyes turned, and she fixed a 
 vixenish look upon Miss Eunice. She suddenly 
 shot her hand out from beneath her shawl and ex- 
 tended it at full length. Across it lay Miss 
 Eunice's glove, very much soiled. 
 
 " Was that thing ever yours ?" demanded the 
 woman, shrilly. 
 
 " Y-yes," said Miss Eunice, faintly. 
 
 The woman seemed (if the apt word is to be 
 
MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 141 
 
 excused) staggered. She withdrew her hand, and 
 looked the glove over. The man shook his head, 
 and began to laugh behind his hat. 
 
 "And did you ever give it to him?" pursued 
 the woman, pointing over her shoulder with her 
 thumb. 
 
 Miss Eunice nodded. 
 
 " Of your own free will ?" 
 
 After a moment of silence she ejaculated, in a 
 whisper, " Yes." 
 
 " Now wait," said the man, coming to the front ; 
 " 'nough has been said by you." He then 
 addressed himself to Miss Eunice with the remains 
 of his laugh still illuminating his face. 
 
 " This is my wife's sister, and she's one of the 
 jealous kind. I love my wife" (here he became 
 grave), "and I never showed her any kind of 
 slight that I know of. I've always been fair to 
 her, and she's always been fair to me. Plain 
 sailin* so far ; I never kep' anything from her 
 but this." He reached out and took the glove 
 from the woman, and spread it out upon his own 
 palm, as Miss Eunice had seen him do once before. 
 He looked at it thoughtfully. " I wouldn't tell her 
 about this ; no, never. She was never very partic- 
 ular to ask me ; that's where her trust in me came 
 in. She knowed I was above doing anything out of 
 the way that is I mean " He stammered and 
 blushed, and then rushed on volubly. " But her 
 sister here thought I paid too much attention to it ; 
 she thought I looked at it too much, and kep' it 
 
J42 MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 
 
 secret. So she nagged and nagged, and kept the 
 pitch boilin' until I had to let it out : I told 'em " 
 (Miss Eunice shivered). " ' No,' says she, my 
 wife's sister, ' that won't do, Gorman. That's 
 chaff, and I'm too old a bird.' Ther'fore I fetched 
 her straight to you, so she could put the question 
 direct." 
 
 He stopped a moment as if in doubt how to go 
 on. Miss Eunice began to open her eyes, and she 
 released the mantel. The man resumed with some- 
 thing like impressiveness : 
 
 "When you last held that," said he, slowly, 
 balancing the glove in his hand, " I was a wicked 
 man with bad intentions through and through. 
 When I first held it I became an honest man, with 
 good intentions." 
 
 A burning blush of shame covered Miss Eunice's 
 face and neck. 
 
 " An' as I kep' it my intentions went on im- 
 provin' and improving till I made up my mind to 
 behave myself in future, forever. Do you under- 
 stand ? forever. No backslidin', no hitchin', no 
 slippin'-up. I take occasion to say, miss, that I 
 was beset time and again ; that the instant I set 
 my foot outside them prison-gates, over there, my 
 old chums got round me ; but I shook my head. 
 ' No/ says I, ' I won't go back on the glove.' ' 
 
 Miss Eunice hung her head. The two had ex- 
 changed places, she thought ; she was the criminal 
 and he the judge. 
 
 "An' what is more," continued he, with the 
 
MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 143 
 
 same weight in his tone, " I not only kep' sight of 
 the glove, but I kep' sight of the generous sperrit 
 that gave it. I didn't let that go. I never forgot 
 what you meant. I knowed I knowed," repeated 
 he, lifting his forefinger " I knowed a time 
 would come when there wouldn't be any enthoosi- 
 asm, any ' hurrah/ and then perhaps you'd be 
 sorry you was so kind to me ; an' the time did 
 come." 
 
 Miss Eunice buried her face in her hands and 
 wept aloud. 
 
 " But did I quit the glove ? No, mum. I held 
 on to it. It was what I fought by. I wasn't going 
 to give it up, because it was asked for. All the 
 police-officers in the city could n't have took it from 
 me, I put it deep into my pocket, and I walked 
 out. It was differcult, miss. But I come through. 
 The glove did it. It helped me stand out against 
 temptation when it was strong. If I looked at it, 
 I remembered that once there was a pure heart that 
 pitied me. It cheered me up. After a while I 
 kinder got out of the mud. Then I got work. 
 The glove again. Then a girl that knowed me 
 before I took to bad ways married me, and no ques- 
 tions asked. Then I just took the glove into a dark 
 corner and blessed it." 
 
 Miss Eunice was belittled. 
 
 A noise was heard in the hallway. Miss 
 Eunice's father and the policeman were going 
 away. 
 
 The awkwardness of the succeeding silence was 
 
144 MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE. 
 
 relieved by the moving of the man and the woman. 
 They had done their errand, and were going. 
 
 Said Miss Eunice, with the faint idea of making 
 a practical apology to her visitor, " I shall go to 
 the prison once a week after this, I think." 
 
 " Then may God bless ye, miss," said the man. 
 He came back with tears in his eyes and took her 
 proffered hand for an instant. Then he and his 
 wife's sister went away. 
 
 Miss Eunice's remaining spark of charity at once 
 crackled and burst into a flame. There is sure to 
 be a little something that is bad in everybody's 
 philanthropy when it is first put to use ; it requires 
 to be filed down like a faulty casting before it will 
 run without danger to anybody. Samaritanism 
 that goes off with half a charge is sure to do great 
 mischief somewhere ; but Miss Eunice's, now prop- 
 erly corrected, henceforth shot off at the proper 
 end, and inevitably hit the mark. She purchased 
 a new Crofutt. 
 
BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 BY HAROLD FREDERIC. 
 
 I WHO tell this story, am called Brother Sebas- 
 5 tian. This name was given me more than 
 forty years ago, while Louis Philippe was still 
 king. My other name has been buried so long that 
 I have nearly forgotten it. I think that my people 
 are dead. At least I have heard nothing from 
 them in many years. My reputation has always 
 been that of a misanthrope if not that, then of a 
 dreamer. In the seminary I had no intimates. In 
 the order, for I am a Brother of the Christian 
 Schools, my associates are polite nothing more. I 
 seem to be outside their social circles, their plans, 
 their enjoyments. True, I am an old man now. 
 But in other years it was the same. All my life I 
 have been in solitude. 
 
 To this there is a single exception one star shin- 
 ing in the blackness. And my career has been so 
 
 *** Utica Observer, iSjg. 
 
146 BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 bleak that, although it ended in deeper sadness than 
 I had known before, I look back to the episode with 
 gratitude. The bank of clouds which shut out this 
 sole light of my life quickened its brilliancy before 
 they submerged it. 
 
 After the terrible siege of '71, when the last Ger- 
 man was gone, and our houses had breasted the 
 ordeal of the Commune, I was sent to the South. 
 The Superior thought my cheeks were ominously 
 hollow, and suspected threats of consumption in 
 my cough. So I was to go to the Mediterranean, and 
 try its milder air. I liked the change. Paris, with 
 its gloss of noisy gayety and its substance of scepti- 
 cal heartlessness, was repugnant to me. Perhaps 
 it was because of this that Brother Sebastian had 
 been mured up in the capital two thirds of his life. 
 If our surroundings are too congenial we neglect 
 the work set before us. But no matter; to the 
 coast I went. 
 
 My new home was a long-established house, 
 spacious, venerable, and dreary. It was on the out- 
 skirts of an ancient town, which was of far more 
 importance before our Lord was born than it has 
 ever been since. We had little to do. There were 
 nine brothers, a handful of resident orphans, and 
 some three-score pupils. Ragged, stupid, big-eyed 
 urchins they were, altogether different from the 
 keen Paris boys. For that matter, every feature of 
 my new home was odd. The heat of the summer 
 was scorching in its intensity. The peasants were 
 much more respectful to our cloth, and, as to ap- 
 
BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 147 
 
 pearance, looked like figures from Murillo's can- 
 vases. The foliage, the wine, the language, the 
 manners of the people everything was changed. 
 This interested me, and my morbidness vanished. 
 The Director was delighted with my improved con- 
 dition. Poor man ! he was positive that my cheeks 
 had puffed out perceptibly after the first two 
 months. So the winter came a mild, wet, muggy 
 winter, wholly unlike my favorite sharp season in 
 the North. 
 
 We were killing time in the library one after- 
 noon, the Director and a Swiss Brother sitting by 
 the lamp reading, I standing at one of the tall, nar- 
 row windows, drumming on the panes and dream- 
 ing. The view was not an inspiring one. There 
 was a long horizontal line of pale yellow sky and 
 another of flat, black land, out of which an occa- 
 sional poplar raised itself solemnly. The great 
 mass below the stripes was brown ; above, gloomy 
 gray. Close under the window two boys were 
 playing in the garden of the house. I recall dis- 
 tinctly that they threw armfuls of wet fallen 
 leaves at each other with a great shouting. While 
 I stood thus, the Brother Servitor, Abonus, came 
 in and whispered to the Director. He always 
 whispered. It was not fraternal, but I did not like 
 this Abonus. 
 
 "Send him up here," said the Director. Then I 
 remembered that I had heard the roll of a carriage 
 and the bell ring, a few moments before. Abonus 
 came in again. Behind him there was some one 
 
148 BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 else, whose footsteps had the hesitating sound of a 
 stranger's. Then I heard the Director's voice : 
 
 " You are from Algiers ?" 
 
 "I am, Brother." 
 
 " Your name ?" 
 
 " Edouard, Brother.' ' 
 
 "Well, tell me more." 
 
 " I was under orders to be in Paris in January, 
 Brother. As my health was poor, I received per- 
 mission to come back to France this autumn. At 
 Marseilles I was instructed to come here. So I am 
 here. I have these papers from the Mother house, 
 and from Etienne, Director, of Algiers." 
 
 Something in the voice seemed peculiar to me. 
 I turned and examined the new-comer. He stood 
 behind and to one side of the Director, who was 
 laboriously deciphering some papers through his 
 big horn spectacles. The light was not very bright, 
 but there was enough to see a wonderfully hand- 
 some face, framed in dazzling black curls. Perhaps 
 it looked the more beautiful because contrasted 
 with the shaven gray poll and surly features of 
 grim Abonus. But to me it was a dream of St. 
 John the Evangel. The eyes of the face were 
 lowered upon the Director, so I could only guess 
 their brilliancy. The features were those of an ex- 
 treme youth round, soft, and delicate. The ex- 
 pression was one of utter fatigue, almost pain. It 
 bore out the statement of ill-health. 
 
 The Director had finished his reading. He 
 lifted his head now and surveyed the stranger in 
 
BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 149 
 
 turn. Finally, stretching out his fat hand, he 
 said : 
 
 " You are welcome, Brother Edouard. I see the 
 letter says you have had no experience except with 
 the youngest children. Brother Photius does that 
 now. We will have you rest for a time. Then we 
 will see about it. Meanwhile I will turn you over 
 to the care of good Abonus, who will give you one 
 of the north rooms." 
 
 So the two went out, Abonus shuffling his feet 
 disagreeably. It was strange that he could do 
 nothing to please me. 
 
 " Brother Sebastian," said the Director, as the 
 door closed, "it is curious that they should have 
 sent me a tenth man. Why, I lie awake now to 
 invent pretences of work for those I have already. 
 I will give up all show of teaching presently, and 
 give out that I keep a hospital a retreat for ailing 
 brothers. Still, this Edouard is a pretty boy." 
 
 " Very." 
 
 " Etienne's letter says he is twenty and a Sa- 
 voyard. He speaks like a Parisian." 
 
 " Very likely he is seminary bred," put in the 
 Swiss. 
 
 "Whatever he is, I like his looks," said our 
 Superior. This good man liked every one. His 
 was the placid, easy Alsatian nature, prone to find 
 goodness in all things even crabbed Abonus. The 
 Director, or, as he was known, Brother Elysee, was 
 a stout, round little man, with a fine face and imper- 
 turbable good spirits. He was adored by all his 
 
150 BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 subordinates. But I fancy he did not advance in 
 favor at Paris very rapidly. 
 
 I liked Edouard from the first. The day after 
 he came we were together much, and, when we 
 parted after vespers, I was conscious of a vast re- 
 spect for this new-comer. He was bright, ready 
 spoken, and almost a man of the world. Compared 
 with my dull career, his short life had been one 
 of positive gayety. He had seen Frederic le Maitre 
 at the Comedie Frangaise. He had been at Court 
 and spoken with the Prince Imperial. He was on 
 terms of intimacy with Monsignori, and had been 
 
 protege of the sainted Darboy. It was a rare 
 pleasure to hear him talk of these things. 
 
 Before this, the ceaseless shifting of brothers 
 from one house to another had been indifferent to 
 me. For the hundreds of strangers who came and 
 went in the Paris house on Oudinot Street I cared 
 absolutely nothing, I did not suffer their entrance 
 nor their exit to excite me. This was so much the 
 case that they called me a machine. But with 
 Edouard this was different. I grew to love the boy 
 from the first evening, when, as he left my room, I 
 caught myself saying, " I shall be sorry when he 
 goes." He seemed to be fond of me, too. For 
 that matter most of the brothers petted him, Elysee 
 especially. But I was flattered that he chose me 
 as his particular friend. For the first time my 
 heart had opened. 
 
 We were alone one evening after the holidays. 
 It was cold without, but in my room it was warm 
 
BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 151 
 
 and bright. The fire crackled merrily, and the 
 candles gave out a mellow and pleasant light. The 
 Director had gone up to Paris, and his mantle had 
 fallen on me. Edouard sat with his feet stretched 
 to the fender, his curly head buried in the great 
 curved back of my invalid chair, the red fire-light 
 reflected on his childish features. I took pleasure 
 in looking at him. He looked at the coals and 
 knit his brows as if in a puzzle. I often fancied 
 that something weightier than the usual troubles of 
 life weighed upon him. At last he spoke, just as I 
 was about to question him : 
 
 " Are you afraid to die, Sebastian ?" 
 
 Not knowing what else to say, I answered, " No, 
 my child/' 
 
 " I wonder if you enjoy life in community ?" 
 
 This was still stranger. I could but reply that I 
 had never known any other life ; that I was fitted 
 for nothing else. 
 
 " But still," persisted he, " would you not like to 
 leave it to have a career of your own before you 
 die ? Do you think this is what a man is created 
 for to give away his chance to live?" 
 
 "Edouard, you are interrogating your own 
 conscience," I answered. "These are questions 
 which you must have answered yourself, before you 
 took your vows. When you answered them, you 
 sealed them." 
 
 Perhaps I spoke too harshly, for he colored and 
 drew up his feet. Such shapely little feet they 
 were. I felt ashamed of my crustiness. 
 
152 BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 <l But, Edouard," I added, "your vows are those 
 of the novitiate. You are not yet twenty-eight. 
 You have still the right to ask yourself these 
 things. The world is very fair to men of your age. 
 Do not dream that I was angry with you." 
 
 He sat gazing into the fire. His face wore a 
 strange, far-away expression, as he reached forth 
 his hand, in a groping way, and rested it on my 
 knee, clutching the gown nervously. Then he 
 spoke slowly, seeking for words, and keeping his 
 eye on the flames : 
 
 " You have been good to me, Brother Sebastian. 
 Let me ask you : May I tell you something in 
 confidence something which shall never pass your 
 lips? I mean it." 
 
 He had turned and poured those marvellous eyes 
 into mine with irresistible magnetism. Of course 
 I said, " Speak!" and I said it without the slightest 
 hesitation. 
 
 " I am not a Christian Brother. I do not belong 
 to your order. I have no claim upon the hospitality 
 of this roof. I am an impostor !" 
 
 He ejected these astounding sentences with an 
 energy almost fierce, gripping my knee meanwhile. 
 Then, as suddenly, his grasp relaxed, and he fell 
 to weeping bitterly. 
 
 I stared at him solemnly, in silence. My tongue 
 seemed paralyzed. Confusing thoughts whirled in 
 a maze unbidden through my head. I could say 
 nothing. But a strange impulse prompted me to 
 reach out and take his hot hand in mine. It was 
 
BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 153 
 
 piteous to hear him sobbing, his head upon his 
 raised arm, his whole frame quivering with emotion. 
 I had never seen any one weep like that before. 
 So I sat dumb, trying in vain to answer this 
 bewildering self-accusation. At last there came 
 out of the folds of the chair the words, faint and 
 tear-choked : 
 
 "You have promised me secrecy, and you will 
 keep your word ; but you will hate me." 
 
 "Why no, no, Edouard, not hate you," I answer- 
 ed, scarcely knowing what I said. I did not com- 
 prehend it at all. There was nothing more for 
 me to say. Finally, when some power of thought 
 returned, I asked : 
 
 " Of all things, my poor boy, why should you 
 choose such a dreary life as this ? What possible 
 reason led you to enter the community ? What 
 attractions has it for you ?" 
 
 Edouard turned again from the fire to me. His 
 eyes sparkled. His teeth were tight set. 
 
 "Why? Why? I will tell you why, Brother 
 Sebastian. Can you not understand how a poor 
 hunted beast should rejoice to find shelter in such 
 an out-of-the-way place, among such kind men, in 
 the grave of this cloister life ? I have not told you 
 half enough. Do you not know in the outside 
 world, in Toulon, or Marseilles, or that fine Paris 
 of yours, there is a price on my head ? or no, not 
 that, but enemies that are looking for me, searching 
 everywhere, turning every little stone for the poor 
 privilege of making me suffer ? And do you know 
 
154 BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP* 
 
 that these enemies wear shakos, and are called gens 
 d'armes ? Would you be pleased to learn that it is 
 a prison I escape by coming here ? Now, will you 
 hate me ?" 
 
 The boy had risen from his chair. He spoke 
 hurriedly, almost hysterically, his eyes snapping at 
 mine like coals, his curls dishevelled, his fingers 
 curved and stiffened like the talons of a hawk. I 
 had never seen such intense earnestness in a human 
 face. Passions like these had never penetrated the 
 convent walls before. 
 
 While I sat dumb before them, Edouard left the 
 room. I was conscious of his exit only in a vague 
 way. For hours I sat in my chair beside the grate 
 thinking, or trying to think. You can see readily 
 that I was more than a little perplexed. In the 
 absence of Elysee, I was director. The manage- 
 ment of the house, its good fame, its discipline, all 
 rested on my shoulders. And to be confronted by 
 such an abyss as this ! I could do absolutely 
 nothing. The boy had tied my tongue by the 
 pledge. Besides, had I been unsworn, I am sure 
 the idea of exposure would never have come to 
 me. It was late before I retired that night. And 
 I recall with terrible distinctness the chaos of 
 brain and faculty which ushered in a restless sleep 
 almost as dawn was breaking. 
 
 I had fancied that Brother Edouard would find 
 life intolerable in community after his revelation 
 to me. He would be chary of meeting me before 
 the brothers ; would be constantly tortured by fear 
 
BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 155 
 
 of detection. As I saw this prospect of the poor 
 innocent for it was absurd to think of him as 
 anything else dreading exposure at each step in 
 his false life, shrinking from observation, biting 
 his tongue at every word I was greatly moved by 
 pity. Judge my surprise, then, when I saw him 
 the next morning join in the younger brothers' 
 regular walk around the garden, joking and laugh- 
 ing as I had never seen before. On his right was 
 thin, sickly Victor, rest his soul ! and on the other 
 pursy, thick-necked John, as merry a soul as Cork 
 ever turned out. And how they laughed, even the 
 frail consumptive ! It was a pleasure to see his 
 blue eyes brighten with enjoyment and his warm 
 cheeks blush. Above John's queer, Irish chuckle, 
 I heard Edouard's voice, with its dainty Parisian 
 accent, retailing jokes and leading in the laughter. 
 The tramp was stretched out longer than usual, so 
 pleasant did they find it. At this development I 
 was much amazed. 
 
 The same change was noticeable in all that 
 Edouard did. Instead of the apathy with which he 
 had discharged his nominal duties, his baby pupils 
 (for Photius had gone to Peru) now became be- 
 witched with him. He told them droll stories, in- 
 cited their rivalry in study by instituting prizes 
 for which they struggled monthly, and, in short, 
 metamorphosed his department. The change spread 
 to himself. His cheeks took on a ruddier hue, the 
 sparkle of his black eyes mellowed into a calm and 
 steady radiance. There was no trace of feverish 
 
156 BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 elation which, in solitude, recoiled to the brink of 
 despair. He sang to himself evenings in his 
 dormitory, clearly and with joy. His step was as 
 elastic as that of any school-boy. I often thought 
 upon this change, and meditated how beautiful an 
 illustration of confession's blessings it furnished. 
 Frequently we were alone, but he never referred 
 again to that memorable evening, even by impli- 
 cation. At first I dreaded to have the door close 
 upon us, feeling that he must perforce seek to 
 take up the thread where he had broken it then. 
 But he talked of other things, and so easily and 
 naturally that I felt embarrassed. For weeks I 
 could not shake off the feeling that, at our next talk, 
 he would broach the subject. But he never did. 
 
 Elysee returned, bringing me kind words from 
 the Mother house, and a half-jocular hint that Su- 
 perior General Philippe had me much in his mind. 
 No doubt there had been a time when the idea of 
 becoming a Director would have stirred my pulses. 
 Surely it was gone now. I asked for nothing but 
 to stay beside Edouard, to watch him, and to be 
 near to lend him a helping hand when his hour of 
 trouble should come. From that ordeal, which I 
 saw approaching clearly and certainly, I shrank 
 with all my nerves on edge. As the object of my 
 misery grew bright-eyed and strong, I felt myself 
 declining in health. My face grew thin, and I 
 could not eat. I saw before my eyes always this 
 wretched boy singing upon the brow of the abyss. 
 Sometimes I strove not to see his fall frightful and 
 
BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 157 
 
 swift. His secret seemed to harass him no longer. 
 To me it was heavier than lead. 
 
 The evening the Brother Director returned, we 
 sat together in the reading-room, the entire com- 
 munity. Elysee had been speaking of the Mother- 
 house, concerning which Brother Barnabas, an odd 
 little Lorrainer who spoke better German than 
 French, and who regarded Paris^with the true pro- 
 vincial awe and veneration, exhibited much curios- 
 ity. We had a visitor, a gaunt, self-sufficient old 
 Parisian, who had spent fourteen days in the Mazas 
 prison during the Commune. I will call him 
 Brother Albert, for his true name in religion is very 
 well known. 
 
 " I heard a curious story in the Vaugirard house," 
 said the Brother Director, refreshing himself with a 
 pinch of snuff, " which made the more impression 
 upon me that I once knew intimately one of the 
 persons in it. Martin Delette was my schoolmate 
 at Pfalsbourg, in the old days. A fine, studious lad 
 he was, too. He took orders and went to the north 
 where he lived for many years a quiet country cure. 
 He had a niece, a charming girl, who is not now 
 more than twenty or one-and twenty. She was an 
 orphan, and lived with him, going to a convent to 
 school and returning at vacations. She was not a 
 bad girl, but a trifle wayward and easily led. She 
 gave the Sisters much anxiety. Last spring she 
 barely escaped compromising the house by an es- 
 capade with a young miserable of the town named 
 Banin." 
 
158 BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 "I know your story," said Albert, with an air 
 which hinted that this was a sufficient reason why 
 the rest should not hear it. " Banin is in prison." 
 
 Elysee proceeded : "The girl was reprimanded. 
 Next week she disappeared. To one of her com- 
 panions she had confided a great desire to see Paris. 
 So good Father Delette was summoned, and, after a 
 talk with the Superioress, started post-haste for the 
 capital. He found no signs either of poor Renee or 
 of Banin, who had also disappeared. The Cure 
 was nearly heart-broken. Each day, they told me, 
 added a year to his appearance. He did not cease 
 to importune the police chiefs and to haunt the pub- 
 lic places for a glimpse of his niece's face. But the 
 summer came, and no Renee. The Cur6 began to 
 cough and grow weak. But one day in August the 
 Director, good Prosper, called him down to the re- 
 ception-room to see a visitor. 
 
 " * There is news for you/ " he whispered, pressing 
 poor Martin's hand. In the room he found " 
 
 " In the room he found " broke in Albert, im- 
 pertinently, but with a quiet tone of authority 
 which cowed good Elysee, " a shabby man, looking 
 like a poorly-fed waiter. This person rose and 
 said, ' I am a detective ; do you know Banin 
 young man, tall, blonde, squints, broken tooth 
 upper jaw, hat back on his head, much talk, hails 
 from Rheims ? ' 
 
 " ' Ah,' said Delette, ' I have not seen him, but I 
 know him too well.' 
 
 "The detective pointed with his thumb over his 
 
BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 159 
 
 left shoulder. * He is in jail. He is good for twen- 
 ty years. I did it myself. My name is so-and-so. 
 Good job. Procurator said you were interested 
 some woman in the case, parishioner of yours, eh ? ' 
 
 " ' My niece,' gasped the Cure. 
 
 " ' O ho! does you credit; pretty girl, curly- 
 head, good manners. Well, she's off. Good trick, 
 too. She was the decoy. Banin stood in the 
 shadow with club. She brought gentleman into 
 alley, friend did work. That's Banin' s story. 
 Perhaps a lie. You have a brother in Algiers ? 
 Thought so. Girl went out there once ? So I was 
 told. Probably there now. African officers say 
 not ; but they're a sleepy lot. If I was a criminal, 
 I'd go to Algiers. Good biding/ The detective 
 went. Delette stood where he was in silence. I 
 went to him, and helped carry him up-stairs. We 
 put him in his bed. He died there." 
 
 Brother Albert stopped. He had told the story, 
 dialogue and all, like a machine. We did not 
 doubt its correctness. The memory of Albert had 
 passed into a proverb years before. 
 
 Brother Albert raised his eyes again, and added, 
 as if he had not paused, " He was ashamed to hold 
 his head up. He might well be." 
 
 A strange, excited voice rose from the other end 
 of the room. I looked and saw that it was Edouard 
 who spoke. He had half arisen from his chair and 
 scowled at Albert, throwing out his words with the 
 tremulous haste of a young man first addressing an 
 audience : 
 
160 BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 " Why should he be ashamed ? Was he not a good 
 man? Was the blame of his bad niece's acts his? 
 From the story, she was well used and had no ex- 
 cuse. It is he who is to be pitied, not blamed !" 
 
 The Brother Director smiled benignly at the 
 young enthusiast. " Brother Edouard is right," he 
 said. " Poor Martin was to be compassioned. 
 None the less, my heart is touched for the girl. In 
 Banin's trial it appeared that he maltreated her, and 
 forced her to do what she did by blows. They were 
 really married. Her neighbors gave Renee a name 
 for gentleness and a good heart. Poor thing !" 
 
 " And she never was found ?" asked Abonus, 
 eagerly. He spoke very rarely. He looked now 
 at me as he spoke, and there was a strange, ungodly 
 glitter in his eyes which made me shudder involun- 
 tarily. 
 
 "Never," replied the Director, "although there 
 is a reward, 5000 francs, offered for her recovery. 
 Miserable child, who can tell what depths of suffer- 
 ing she may be in this moment ?" 
 
 " It would be remarkable if she should be found 
 now, after all this time," said Abonus, sharply. 
 His wicked, squinting old eyes were still fastened 
 upon me. This time, as by a flash of eternal knowl- 
 edge, I read their meaning, and felt the ground slip- 
 ping from under me. 
 
 I shall never forget the night that followed. I 
 made no pretence of going to bed. Edouard's little 
 dormitory was in another part of the house. I went 
 once to see him, but dared not knock, since Abonus 
 
BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 161 
 
 was stirring about just across the hall, in his own 
 den. I scratched on a piece of paper "Fly!" in 
 the dark, and pushed it under the door. Then I 
 returned to walk my chamber, chafing like a wild 
 beast. Ah, that night, that night ! 
 
 With the first cock crow in the village below, 
 long before the bell, I left my room. I wanted air 
 to breathe. I passed Abonus on the broad stair- 
 way. He strode up with unwonted vigor, bearing 
 a heavy cauldron of water as if it had been straw. 
 His gown was tumbled and dusty ; his greasy rabat 
 hung awry about his neck. I had it in my head to 
 speak with him, but could not. So the early hours, 
 with devotions which I went through in a dream, 
 wore on in horrible suspense, and breakfast came. 
 
 We sat at the long table, five on a side, the Direct- 
 or looking red-eyed and weary from the evening's 
 unaccustomed dissipation sitting at the head. Be- 
 low us stood Brother Albert, reading from Tertul- 
 lian in a dry, monotonous chant. I recall, as I 
 write, how I found a certain comfort in those 
 splendid, sonorous Latin sentences, though I was 
 conscious of not comprehending a word. I dreaded 
 the moment they should end. Edouard sat beside 
 me. We had not exchanged a word during the 
 morning. How could I speak ? What should I say ? 
 I was in a nervous flutter, like unto those who 
 watch the final pinioning of a criminal whose 
 guillotine is awaiting him. I could not keep my 
 eyes from the fair face beside me, with its delicate- 
 ly-cut profile, made all the more cameo-like by its 
 
162 BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP, 
 
 pallid whiteness. The lips were tightly compressed. 
 I could see askant that the tiny nostrils were quiv- 
 ering with excitement. All else was impassive on 
 Edouard's face. We two sat waiting for the axe to 
 fall. 
 
 It is as distinct as a nightmare to me. Abonus 
 came in with his great server laden with victuals. 
 He stumbled as he approached. He too was excit- 
 ed. He drew near, and stood behind me. I seemed 
 to feel his breath penetrate my skull ; and yet I was 
 forced to answer a whispered question of Brother 
 John's with a smooth face. I saw Edouard sudden- 
 ly reach for the milk glass in front of his plate, and 
 hand it back to Abonus with the disdain of a duch- 
 ess. He said, in a sharp, peremptory tone : 
 
 " Take it away and cleanse it. No one but a dirty 
 monk would place such a glass on the table." 
 
 Albert ceased his reading. Abonus did not touch 
 the glass. He shuffled hastily to the side-board and 
 deposited his burden. Then he came back with the 
 same eager movement. He placed his fists on his 
 hips, like a fish-woman, and hissed, in a voice chok- 
 ing with concentrated rage 
 
 " No one but a woman would complain of it !" 
 
 The brothers stared at each other and the two 
 speakers in mute surprise. But they saw nothing 
 in the words beyond a personal wrangle though 
 even that was such a novelty as to arrest instant at- 
 tention. I busied myself with my plate. The Di- 
 rector assumed his harshest tone, and asked the 
 cause of the altercation. Abonus leaned over and 
 
BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 163 
 
 whispered something in his ear. I remember next 
 a room full of confusion, a babel of conflicting 
 voices, and a whirling glimpse of uniforms. Then 
 I fainted. 
 
 When I revived I was in my own room, stretched 
 upon my pallet. I looked around in a dazed way 
 and saw the Brother Director and a young gen- 
 darme by the closed door. Something black and 
 irregular in the outline of the bed at my side at- 
 tracted my eyes. I saw that it was Edouard's head 
 buried in the drapery. As in a dream I laid my 
 numb hand upon those crisp curls. I was an old 
 man, she a weak, wretched girl. She raised her 
 face at my touch, and burned in my brain a vision 
 of stricken agony,' of horrible soul-pain, which we 
 liken, for want of a better simile, to the anguish in 
 the eyes of a dying doe. Her lips moved ; she said 
 something, I know not what. Then she went, and 
 I was left alone with Elysee. His words broken, 
 stumbling words I remember : 
 
 " She asked to see you, Sebastian, my friend. I 
 could not refuse. Her papers were forged. She did 
 come from Algiers, where her uncle is a Capuchin. 
 I do not ask, I do not wish to know, how much you 
 know of this. Before my Redeemer, I feel nothing 
 but pity for the poor lamb. Lie still, my friend ; 
 try to sleep. We are both older men than we were 
 yesterday." 
 
 There is little else to tell. Only twice have re- 
 flections of this episode in my old life reached me 
 in the seclusion of a missionary post at the foot of 
 
1 64 BROTHER SEBASTIAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 the Andes. I learned a few weeks ago that the 
 wretched Abonus had bought a sailor's caf on the 
 Toulon wharves with his five thousand francs. And 
 I know also that the heart of the Marshal-President 
 was touched by the sad story of Rene"e, and that 
 she left the prison La Salpetriere to lay herself in 
 penitence at the foot of Mother Church. This is 
 the story of my friendship. 
 
V , 
 
 r..