\
 
 V 

 
 
 
 V 
 
 \A/ 
 

 
 
 i \
 
 STORIES AND SKETCHES.
 
 STORIES AND SKETCHES 
 
 OUR BEST AUTHORS. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 LEE AND SHEPARD. 
 
 1867.
 
 \ 
 
 V. 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by 
 
 LEE & SHEPARD, 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.
 
 I 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 THE SKELETON AT THB%ANQUET. . Sedey Regester. 9 
 
 LET THOSE LADOH WHO WIN. . . /Samuel W. Tattle. 37 
 
 THE PROPER USE OF GRANDFATHERS. Fitz Hugh Ludlow. 61 
 
 AT EVE. , ... . ....:*.. . Gertrude Brock. 77 
 
 BROKEN IDOLS Richmond Wolcott. 93 
 
 DR. HUOER'S INTENTIONS. . Louise Chandler Moulton. 105 
 
 THE MAN WHOSE LIFE WAS SAVED. . *#***. 121 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF A WESTERN TRIP. . . J. L. Lord. 157 
 THE Two GHOSTS OF NEW LONDON 
 
 TURNPIKE Mrs. Galpin. 185 
 
 DOWN BY THE SEA. . . . Hattie Tyng Griswdd. 229 
 
 WHY MRS. RADNOR FAINTED. . . . *****. 249 
 
 UNDER A CLOUD William Wirt Sikes. 265 
 
 COMING FROM THE FRONT. . . Richmond Woloott. 281 
 
 A NIGHT IN THE SEWERS. . . Chas. Dawson Shanly. 293 
 
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 THE SKELETON AT THE BANQUET. 
 
 j]K. GKAHAM sat in his office, his book closed 
 on his knee, and his eyes fixed upon the street. 
 There was nothing of interest to be seen. A 
 light snow was falling, making the pavement 
 dreary ; but it was Christmas, and his thoughts 
 had gone back to other days, as people's thoughts will 
 go on anniversary occasions. He was thinking of the 
 young wife he had buried three years and three months 
 ago; of the great fireplace in his boyhood's home, and 
 his mother's face lit up by the glow; of many things 
 past which were pleasant; and reflecting sadly upon the 
 fact that life grew duller, more commonplace, as one 
 grew older. Not that he was an elderly man, he was, 
 in reality, but twenty-eight; yet, upon that Christmas 
 day, he felt old, very old; his wife dead, his practice 
 slender, his prospects far from promising, even the 
 slow-moving days daily grew heavier, soberer, more 
 serious. It was a holiday, but he had not even an invi- 
 tation for dinner, where the happiness of friends and the 
 free flow of thought might lend a momentary sparkle to 
 his own stale spirits. 

 
 
 \ 
 
 10 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 
 
 The -doctor was not of a melancholy, despondent 
 nature, nor did he rely for his pleasures upon others. 
 He was a self-made man, and self-reliant to an unusual 
 degree, as self-made men are apt to be. His tussle with 
 circumstances had awakened in him a combative and 
 resistant energy, which had served him well when 
 means were scant and the rewards of merit few. But 
 there is something in the festal character of Christinas 
 which, by luring from the shadows of our struggle-life 
 the boy nature of us, makes homeless men feel solitary; 
 and, from being forlorn, the mood soon grows to one of 
 painful unrest ; all from beholding happiness from 
 which we are shut out. On this gray afternoon not the 
 most fascinating speculations of De Boismont and the 
 hospital lectures, not the consciousness of the origin- 
 ality and importance of Ms own discoveries in the field 
 of Sensation and Nerve Force, had any interest for 
 Dr. Graham. 
 
 That he had talent and a good address ; that he studied 
 and experimented many hours every day; that he as 
 thoroughly understood his profession as was consistent 
 with a six years' actual experience as an actual practi- 
 tioner; that there was nothing of the quack or pretender 
 in him; all this did not prevent his rent from being high, 
 his patients few, and his means limited. With no influ- 
 ential friends to recommend and introduce him, he had 
 resolutely rented a room in a genteel locality up town, 
 had dressed well, and had worn the " air " of a man of 
 business, ever ready for duty; but success had not
 
 
 The Skeleton at the Banquet. n 
 
 attended upon his efforts, and the future gave no prom- 
 ise of a change. Of this he was thinking, somewhat 
 bitterly; for what proud soul is not stung with un- 
 merited neglect ? Then a deep sadness stole over him 
 at thoughts of the loss which had come upon his early 
 manhood, a loss like which there is none other so 
 abiding hi strong, wise hearts. A cloud seemed to be 
 sifting down and closing around him, which, with un- 
 usual passivity, he seemed unable or unwilling to shake 
 off. A carriage obstructed his view, by passing in front 
 of his window. It stopped; then the footman de- 
 scended, opened the carriage-door, and turned to the 
 office-bell. He was followed by his master, who awaited 
 the answer to the bell, and was ushered into the practi- 
 tioner's presence by the single waiting-servant of his 
 modest establishment. The doctor arose to receive his 
 guest, who was a man still younger than himself, with 
 something of a foreign air, and dressed with a quiet 
 richness in keeping with his evident wealth and position. 
 
 " Dr. Graham ? 
 
 The doctor bowed assent. 
 
 " If you are not otherwise engaged, I would like you 
 to go home with me, to see my sister, who is not well. 
 There is no great haste about the matter, but if you can 
 go now, I shall be glad to take you with me. It will 
 save you a walk through the snow." 
 
 " He knows," thought the doctor, " that I do not 
 drive a carriage;" and that a stranger, of such ability 
 to hire the most noted practitioners, should call upon
 
 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 
 
 him, was a source of unexpressed surprise and sus- 
 picion. 
 
 " What do you think is the matter with your sister ? " 
 he unconcernedly asked, taking his overcoat from the 
 wardrobe. 
 
 " That is for you to decide. It is a case of no ordi- 
 nary character one which will require study." He 
 led the way at once to the door, as if unwilling to delay, 
 notwithstanding he had at first stated that no haste was 
 necessary. " Step in, doctor, and I will give you an 
 inkling of the case during the drive, which will occupy 
 some fifteen or twenty minutes." 
 
 " In the first place," continued the stranger, as they 
 rolled away, " I will introduce myself to you as St. 
 Victor Marchand, at present a resident of your city, but 
 recently from the island of Madeira. My house is upon 
 the Fifth Avenue, not far from Madison Square. My 
 household consists only of myself and sister, with our 
 servants. I have the means to remunerate you amply 
 for any demands we may make upon your time or skill; 
 and I ought to add, one reason for selecting so young a 
 physician is, that I think you will be the more able 
 and willing to devote more time to the case than more 
 famous practitioners. However, you are not unknown 
 to me. I have heard you well-spoken of; and I remem- 
 ber that, when you were a student in Paris, you were 
 mentioned with honor by the college, for an able paper 
 read before the open section upon the very subject to
 
 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 13 
 
 which I now propose to direct your attention, mental 
 disease," he added, after a moment's hesitation. 
 
 " A case of insanity ? " bluntly asked the doctor. 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! And yet I must not conceal from 
 you that I fear it" 
 
 " Give me some of the symptoms. Insanity in strong 
 development, or aberration of faculties, or hallucina- 
 tion ? " 
 
 " I cannot reply. It is one and all, it seems to me. 
 The fact is, doctor, I wish to introduce you to your 
 patient simply as a friend of mine, so as to give you an 
 opportunity for studying my sister's case, unembarrassed 
 by any suspicion- on her part. To excite her suspicions 
 is to frustrate all hopes of doing anything for or with 
 her. Can you will you do me the favor to dine with 
 me this evening ? It is now only about an hour to six, 
 and if you have no other engagement, I will do my best 
 to entertain you, and you can then meet my sister as 
 her brother's guest. Shall it be so ? " 
 
 The young man's tones were almost beseeching, and 
 his manner betrayed the most intense solicitude. Quite 
 ready to accede to the request, from curiosity as well as 
 from a desire to reassure the young man, Dr. Graham 
 did not hesitate to say, " Willingly, sir, if it will assist 
 in a professional knowledge of the object of my call." 
 
 The change from the office to the home into which 
 
 the physician was introduced was indeed grateful to 
 
 the doctor's feelings. The light, warmth, and splendor 
 
 of the rooms gave to the home an air of tropical sensu- 
 
 2
 
 14 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 
 
 ousness; and yet an exquisite taste seemed to preside 
 over all. Though not unfamiliar with elegance, this 
 home of the brother and sister wore, to the visitor, an 
 enchanted look, as well from the foreign character of 
 many of its adornments and the rare richness of its 
 works of art, as from the gay, friendly, enthusiastic 
 manner of his entertainer, a manner never attained 
 by English or Americans. Sending word to Miss Mar- 
 chand that there would be a guest to dinner, St. Victor 
 fell into a sparkling conversation, discoursing most in- 
 telligibly of Paris, Madeira, the East Indies, and South 
 America, taking his guest from room to room to show 
 this or that curious specimen of the productions or 
 handicraft of each country. As the articles exhibited 
 were rare, and many of them of scientific value, and as 
 the young man's knowledge kept pace with his eloquence 
 of discourse, Dr. Graham was agreeably absorbed. 
 
 An hour passed rapidly. Then the steward announced 
 dinner; but it was not until they were about seating 
 themselves at table that the patient made her appearance. 
 It was now twilight out of doors. The curtains were 
 drawn and the dining-room lit only by wax tapers, 
 under whose soft radiance bloomed an abundance of 
 flowers, mostly of exotic beauty and fragrance. It was 
 evident that the young master of the house brought 
 with him his early tastes. 
 
 " We have an extra allowance of light and flowers, and 
 a little feast, too, I believe; for neither myself nor my 
 English steward here forget that this is Christmas.
 
 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 15 
 
 Don't you think it a beautiful holiday ? My mother 
 always kept it with plenty of wax candles and flowers." 
 
 " Jt is a sacred day to me," answered the doctor, sad- 
 ly, thinking of his lost wife and of the three times they 
 had kept it together, with feasting and love's delights. 
 
 At this moment Miss Marchand floated into the room 
 and to her place at the head of the table, a girlish 
 creature, who gave their guest a smile when the brother 
 said, 
 
 "Dr. Graham is not entirely a stranger, Edith; he 
 was in Paris when we were there. You were a child, 
 then. I was indeed glad to meet him in this strange 
 city, and I mean that we shall be friends upon a visiting 
 footing, if he will permit it." ^ 
 
 It was but natural for the physician to fix a piercing 
 look upon the face of her whom he had been given to 
 understand was to be his patient, and whose disease was 
 of a character to command his best skill. His physi- 
 cian's eye detected no outward tokens of ill health, either 
 of body or of mind. A serene brow, sweet, steady, lov- 
 ing eyes, cheeks rosy and full with maiden health, a 
 slender though not thin figure, all were there before 
 him, giving no indication even of the "nervousness" 
 assumed to be so common with young ladies of this 
 generation. Exquisite beauty, allied with perfect health, 
 seemed to "blush and bloom" all over her; and the 
 medical man would have chosen her, with professional 
 enthusiasm, as his ideal of what a young woman ought 
 to be. Her pink-silk robe adapted itsejif to her soft
 
 16 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 
 
 form as naturally as the petals of a rose to its curving 
 sweetness. Only to look upon her gladdened the sad 
 heart of Dr. Graham, the wifeless and childless. He 
 felt younger than he had felt for years, as thirsty grass 
 feels under the influence of a June sun after a morning 
 of showers. His spirits rose, and he talked well, even 
 wittily, betraying not only his varied learning as a 
 student and his keen powers of observation as a man of 
 the world, but also the gentleness and grace which, in 
 his more active, worldly life, were too much put aside. 
 It was a little festival, in which the dainty dishes, the 
 fruit, and wine played but a subordinate part. 
 
 Nothing could be more apparent than the pride and 
 affection with which Mr^archand regarded his sister. 
 Was there, indeed, a skeleton at this feast ? The doc- 
 tor shuddered as he asked himself the question. All his 
 faculties were on the alert to deny and disprove the pos- 
 sibility of the presence of the hideous visitor. His sym- 
 pathies were too keenly enlisted to be willing to 
 acknowledge its existence even in the background of 
 that day or the days to come to that household. Yet, 
 ever and anon, in the midst of their joyousness, a 
 strange look would leap from the quick, dark eyes of 
 St. Victor, as he fixed them upon his sister's face, and 
 an expression would flit across his own face inscrutable 
 to the watchful physician. With a slight motion of his 
 hand or head he would arrest and direct the doctor's 
 attention, who would then perceive Miss Marchand's lu- 
 minous glance changing into a look expressive of anxi-
 
 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 17 
 
 ety and terror, the glow of her cheeks fading into a pallor 
 like that of one in a swoon. But, strange ! an instant 
 would change it all. The pallor, lingering but a mo- 
 ment, would melt away as a mist before the sun, and the 
 roses would come back to the cheeks again in all their 
 rosiness. The host would divert his companion's star- 
 tled attention by gracefully pressing the viands upon his 
 notice, or by some brilliant sally, so scintillating with wit 
 or droll wisdom, as to have brought the smile to an an- 
 chorite's eyes. 
 
 " I pray you watch her ! Did you not notice that 
 slight incoherency ? " he remarked, in a whisper, lean- 
 ing over toward the doctor. 
 
 The doctor had noticed nothing but the playful badi- 
 nage of a happy girl. 
 
 " I am afraid her loveliness blinds my judgment. 1 
 must see what there is in all this," he answered to him- 
 self, deprecatingly. 
 
 They sat long at table. Not that any one ate to ex- 
 cess, though the pompous English steward served up 
 one delicious dish after another, including the time- 
 honored Christmas feast requisite, the plum-pudding, 
 which was tasted and approved, not to wound the 
 Briton's national and professional vanity, but sent off, 
 but slightly shorn of its proportions, to grace the ser- 
 vants' table. 
 
 The guest noticed that St Victor partook very spar- 
 ingly of food, although he fully enjoyed the occasion. 
 Save tasting of the wild game and its condiment of real 
 2*
 
 i8 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 
 
 Calcutta currie, he ate nothing of the leading dishes or 
 entrees. Neither did he drink much wine, whose quality 
 was of the rarest, being of his own stock drawn from 
 his father's rich store in his Madeira cellar. Of the lus- 
 cious grapes and oranges which formed a leading feature 
 of the dessert, he partook more freely, as if they cooled 
 his tongue. That there was fever, and nervous excite- 
 ment, hi the young man's frame, was evident. Indeed, 
 to the doctor's observant eye, the brother appeared more 
 delicate, and of a temperament more highly nervous 
 than his sister. 
 
 The frankness, the almost childish confidence and 
 open-heartedness of the young people formed one of 
 their greatest attractions to the usually reticent, thought- 
 ful physician. He felt his own impulses expanding un- 
 der the warmth of their sunny natures until the very 
 romance of his boyhood stirred again, and sprouted 
 through the mould in which it lay dormant. There was 
 nothing in their past history or present prospects which, 
 seemingly, they cared to conceal, so that he had become 
 possessed of a pretty fair history of their lives before 
 the last course came upon the board. Both were born 
 in the island of Madeira. St. Victor was twenty-four, 
 Edith nineteen, years of age. Their mother was the 
 daughter of an American merchant, long resident on the 
 island ; their father was a French gentleman of fortune, 
 who had retired to the island for his health, had loved 
 and won the fair American girl, and lived with her a 
 life of almost visionary beauty and happiness. Their
 
 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 19 
 
 father had joined their grandfather in eome of his mer- 
 cantile ventures ; hence those voyages to the Indies, to 
 South America, to the Mediterranean in which the 
 children were participants. They also had spent a couple 
 of years in France, cultivating the acquaintance of their 
 relatives there, and adding some finishing touches to St. 
 Victor's education, which, having been conducted under 
 his father's eye by accomplished tutors, was unusually 
 thorough and varied for one so young. This fact the 
 doctor surmised during the progress of the banquet, 
 though he did not ascertain the full extent of the young 
 man's accomplishments until a future day. Nor was 
 Edith's education overlooked. She was in a remarkable 
 degree fitted to be the companion and confidante of her 
 brother, sympathizing in his tastes, reading his books, 
 enjoying his pastimes, and sharing his ambitions to their 
 utmost. It was a beautiful blending of natures, such 
 as the world too rarely beholds, such as our received 
 "systems" of education and association cannot pro- 
 duce. 
 
 Their grandfather had been dead for several years ; 
 their father for three, their mother for two. " She faded 
 rapidly after father's death, drooped like a frost- 
 blighted flower," said St. Victor. " They had been too 
 happy in this world to remain long apart in the next." 
 
 " You now see, doctor," the narrator of these family 
 reminiscences at length said, " why Edith and myself are 
 so unlike. My sister is her mother over again, fair 
 and bright, like your New York ladies, among the
 
 2O The Skeleton at the Banquet. 
 
 most beautiful women, in many respects, I have ever 
 seen. I am dark and thin, a very Frenchman in tastes, 
 temperament, and habits." 
 
 He toyed a few moments with an orange ; then, again 
 leaning toward the physician, he said, in that sharp 
 whisper which once before during the evening he had 
 made use of, 
 
 " I will tell you all, doctor. My father died insane. 
 We afterwards learned that it was one of the inheritances 
 of his haughty and wealthy family. The peace and de- 
 light which he had with his wife and children long de- 
 layed the terrible legacy; but it fell due at last. He 
 died a maniac, a raving maniac. She does not know 
 it. It killed her mother. Imagine, doctor, imagine, if 
 you can, how I watch over her I how I pity ! how I 
 dread ! O God ! to think that I must detect those symp- 
 toms, as I have done during the last six months. I have 
 seen the virus in her eyes to-night. I have not breathed 
 a word to her of my knowledge and convictions; but I 
 am as certain of it as that she sits there. Look at her 
 now, doctor, now/" with a stealthy side-glance 
 at the beautiful girl who, at the moment, was smiling 
 absently over a flower which she had taken from its 
 vase, smiling only as girls can, as if it interpreted 
 something deeper than a passing thought. 
 
 It is impossible to describe the strain of agony in the 
 young man's voice; his sudden pallor; the sweat start- 
 ing from his forehead; or to describe the piercing power 
 of his eye, as he turned it from the face of his sister to
 
 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 21 
 
 that of his guest. Accustomed as he was to every form 
 of suffering, Dr. Graham shrank from the appeal in that 
 searching look, which mutely asked him if there were 
 any hope. 
 
 The clear whisper in which St. Victor had spoken 
 aroused Edith from her revery; she darted a glance at 
 both parties, so full of suspicion and dread, so in con- 
 trast with her natural sunny expression, that it was as 
 if her face had suddenly withered, from that of a child, 
 to the thin features of the careworn woman -of fifty. She 
 half rose in her chair, faltered, sank back, and sat gaz- 
 ing fixedly at the two men ; yet silent as a statue. 
 
 St. Victor was the first to^recover himself. He burst 
 into a light laugh, sweet as a shower of flowers, and, 
 taking up a slender-necked decanter of pale wine, passed 
 it to his guest, remarking, 
 
 " We are forgetting that this is Christmas night. Fill 
 your glass, my friend, with this wine, the oldest and 
 rarest of our precious store, and I will fill mine. 
 Then, we will both drink joyously to the health of my 
 only darling my one beloved my sister." 
 
 He said this so prettily, poured out the wine with such 
 arch pleasantry of gesture, that the color came back to 
 Edith's cheeks; and when the two men bowed to her, 
 before drinking, she gave them a smile, steeped in mel- 
 ancholy, but very sweet, and brimming with affection. 
 It thrilled Dr. Graham's veins more warmly than the 
 priceless wine. 
 
 " After our mother's death," continued St. Victor, in
 
 22 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 
 
 his natural voice, " we found ourselves quite alone. "We 
 had formed no great attachment 10 our relatives in 
 France; and, as one branch of our father's business re- 
 mained still unsettled in this country, we resolved to 
 come hither. Then, too, we had a longing to behora the 
 land which was our mother's. When we had arranged 
 and closed up our affairs in Madeira, we sailed for 
 Trance, where we spent one winter only. I thought " 
 with a tender glance at his sister " that a sea voyage 
 would do Edith good. I was not satisfied about her 
 health; so I drew her away from Paris, and, last spring, 
 we fulfilled our promise to see our mother's land, and 
 came hither. I am afrai<J the climate here does not 
 agree with her. Do you think she looks well ? " 
 
 The girl moved uneasily, casting a beseeching look at 
 the speaker. 
 
 " It is not I who am not strong," she said ; " it is you, 
 St. Victor. If your friend is a doctor, I wish he would 
 give a little examination into the state of your health. 
 You are thin and nervous; you have no appetite, 
 while he can see, at a glance, that nothing in the world 
 ails me." 
 
 Again her brother laughed; not gayly as before, but 
 with a peculiar and subtle significance ; while he gave 
 the doctor another swift glance, saying to him in a low 
 voice, 
 
 "I have heard that persons threatened with certain 
 mental afflictions never suspect their own danger." 
 
 Dr. Graham did not know if the young lady overheard
 
 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 23 
 
 this remark; he glanced toward her, but her eyes again 
 were upon the flowers, which she was pulling to pieces. 
 He perceived that her lips trembled; but she still smiled, 
 scattering the crimson leaves over the white clothes. 
 
 At this period of his novel visit, just then and there, 
 when St. Victor laughed that subtle laugh and his sister 
 vacantly destroyed the red flower, a conviction rushed 
 into the physician's mind, or rather, we may say, pierced 
 it through like a ray of light in a darkened room. 
 
 Instantly all was clear to him. From that moment 
 he was cool and watchful, but so pained with this eud- 
 den knowledge of the true state of the case that he 
 wished himself well out of that splendid house, back in 
 his own dreary office. He wished himself away, because 
 he already loved these young people, and his sympathy 
 with them was too keen to allow him further to enjoy 
 himself; yet, in all his medical experience, he had never 
 been so interested with a professional interest. As a 
 physician, he felt a keen pleasure; as a friend, a keen 
 pain. His faculties each sprang to its post, awaiting 
 the next development of the scene. 
 
 While Mr. Marchand was giving some order to his 
 steward, the beautiful girl at his other hand leaned to- 
 ward him, and also whispered confidentially in his ear: 
 " Dr. Graham, if you really are my brother's friend, I 
 pray you watch him closely, and tell me at some future 
 time if you have any fears any suspicions of Oh, 
 I implore you, sir, do not deceive me ! " 
 
 Her eyes were filled with tears, her voice choked.
 
 24 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 
 
 The thing was absurd. Its ludicrous aspect struck 
 the listener, almost forcing him to laugh; while the 
 tears, at the same time, arose responsive in his own 
 eyes. 
 
 A clock on the mantel chimed nine. The steward 
 placed on the board the last delicacies of the feast, 
 Neapolitan creams and orange-water ice. 
 
 " Edith chooses luscious things like creams," remarked 
 her brother. " Which will you have, doctor ? As for 
 me, I prefer ices; they cool my warm blood, which is 
 fierce like tropic air. Ah, this is delicious 1 I am fe- 
 verish, I believe; and the scent of the orange brings 
 back visions of our dear island home." 
 
 He paused, as if his mind were again on the vine-clad 
 hills of the " blessed isle." Then he spoke, suddenly, 
 
 " Edith, have some of this ? " 
 
 She smiled, shaking her head. 
 
 " But you must. I insist. You need it. Don't you 
 agree with me, doctor, that it is just what she re- 
 quires ? " 
 
 He spoke in a rising key, with a rapid accent. Edith 
 reached forth her hand, and took the little dish of 
 orange ice. It shook like a lily in the wind; but she 
 said, softly and with apparent calmness, 
 
 "Anything to please you, brother. I will choose 
 this every day if you think it good for me." 
 
 He gave her a satisfied look. Then there was a brief 
 silence, which their guest was about to dissipate with
 
 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 25 
 
 a playful remark, when St. Victor turned abruptly to 
 the steward, 
 
 " Thompson," he cried, " now bring in the skeleton 1 " 
 
 " "What, sir ? " stammered the astonished servant. 
 
 "Bring in the skeleton, I said. Do you not know 
 that the Egyptians always crown their feasts with a 
 death's head ? Bring it in, I say, and place il there /" 
 
 Half-rising in his seat, he pointed to the vacant space 
 behind his sister's chair. 
 
 The man now smiled, thinking his master jested; but 
 his expression grew more questioning and anxious as 
 the bright eyes turned upon him glittering in anger. 
 
 " "Why am I not obeyed ? Bring in the skeleton, 
 I repeat, and place it behind my sister's chair. It is in 
 the house; you will have no difficulty in finding it. It 
 has lurked here long. I have been aware of its presence 
 these many months, always following, following my 
 dear Edith, a shadow in her steps. You see how 
 young and fair she is; but it is all hollow ashes 
 coffin-dust ! She does not know of it; she has never even 
 turned her head when it lurked behind her; but to-night 
 she must make its acquaintance. It will not longer be 
 put off. Our feast is nearly over. Bring it in, Thomp- 
 son, and we will salute it." 
 
 The steward, with a puzzled look, turned from one to 
 another of the company. Miss Marchand had risen to 
 her feet, and was regarding her brother with terrified 
 eyes, stretching out her hands toward him. The doctor, 
 too, arose, not in excitement, but with commingled pain 
 3
 
 26 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 
 
 and resolution stamped upon his features; while his 
 gaze rested upon the face of St. Victor until the eyes of 
 the young man were riveted and arrested by the doc- 
 tor's demeanor. A flush then diffused itself gradually 
 over Marchand's pale countenance; his thin nostrils 
 quivered; his fingers twitched and trembled and sought 
 his bosom, as if in search of something concealed there. 
 Then he laughed once more that short, nervous laugh so 
 significant to the physician's ears, and cried, in a high 
 tone, 
 
 " So, Edith, you did not know that you were going 
 mad ? I did. I've watched you night and day this long 
 time. I have all along been afraid it would end as it 
 has on Christmas night. That was the day our father 
 tried to murder our mother. An anniversary, then, we 
 have to-night celebrated. Ha, ha ! And you didn't 
 know the skeleton was awaiting admittance to the ban- 
 quet ! " 
 
 His eyes gleamed with a light at once of delight and 
 with malice ; but he quietly added, 
 
 " But I shall not harm you, you demented thing, you 
 beautiful insanity. There! doctor, didn't I tell you to 
 watch her to read her to comprehend the subtle 
 thing ? So full of art and duplicity ! But look at her 
 now now! She is as mad as the serpent which has 
 poisoned itself with its own fangs mad mad ! O 
 God ! has it come to this ? But, I knew it knew the 
 skeleton was her skeleton the bones without her beau-
 
 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 27 
 
 tiful flesh. We've had enough of it now. Take it 
 away, Thompson, hurry it away 1 " 
 
 " Appear to obey him. Pretend that you take some- 
 thing from the room," said Dr. Graham, in an under- 
 tone, to the servant, while St. Victor's eyes were fixed 
 glaring and lurid upon his trembling, agonized, speech- 
 less sister. 
 
 The skeleton had, in truth, appeared at the Christmas 
 feast. 
 
 Laying his hand firmly upon the young man's wrist 
 the doctor said, 
 
 " Mr. Marchand, you're not well, to-night. You are 
 over-fatigued. Shall we go upstairs ? " 
 
 St. Victor's quickly flashing gaze was met by that 
 clear, resolute, almost fierce response in the physician's 
 eye, before which he hesitated, then shrank. The mad- 
 man had his master before him. 
 
 " You are right. I am not very well; my head aches; 
 I'm worn out with this trouble about Edith, doctor. 
 Do you think it is hopeless ? She had better come with 
 us. I don't like to leave her alone with that hideous 
 shape at her back." 
 
 Obeying the gentle but firm pull upon his wrist, the 
 brother turned to leave the room, looking back wistfully 
 upon his sister. She was following them with clasped 
 hands, and a face from which all youth and color had 
 fled. St. Victor suddenly paused, gave a scream like the 
 cry of a panther, wrenched himself quickly from the 
 grasp upon his arm, and, in an instant, hia teeth were
 
 28 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 
 
 buried in the white shoulder of his sister. But only for 
 an instant, for almost as quickly as the madman's move- 
 ment had been the doctor's. One terrible blow of his 
 fist sent the maniac to the floor like a clod. 
 
 " O doctor ! why did you do it ? " 
 
 " To save your life, Miss Marchand." 
 
 " Poor St. Victor ! His fate is on him at last." 
 
 Her voice was calm in its very despair. She sank 
 down beside the senseless man, lifting the worn, white 
 face to her lap and covering it with kisses. " I saw it, 
 yet I did not think it would come so soon. O God ! 
 be pitiful ! Have I not prayed enough ? " 
 
 The lips of the injured man began to quiver. " We 
 must bind him and get him to bed before he fully re- 
 covers," said the doctor, lifting Edith to her feet. 
 " Here, Thompson, help me to carry him to his 
 bed." 
 
 When the maniac recovered consciousness fully, hi.-j 
 ravings were fearful. It was the malady of frenzy in 
 its most appalling condition. The extent of the mental 
 wreck Dr. Graham had, for the last half hour of the 
 feast, been trying to fathom. When he dealt that dread- 
 ful blow he knew the wreck was complete: reason had 
 gone out forever with that panther-like shriek. All 
 that could be done was to secure the maniac against 
 injury to himself or others, and to administer such 
 anti-spasmodics or anaesthetics as, in some degree, 
 would control the paroxysms. 
 
 Poor St. Victor ! So young, so gifted, so blest with
 
 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 29 
 
 worldly goods ; his fate was upon him, as Edith had 
 said. 
 
 From that hour he had but brief respite from tor- 
 ment. Not a gleain of sanity came from those fiery 
 eyes; all was fierce, untamable, inhuman, as if the life 
 had been one of storm and crime, instead of peace and 
 purity. Did there lay upon that racking bed a proof of 
 the natural depravity of the creature man, when the 
 creature was uncontrolled by a reasoning, responsible 
 will ? Or, was it not rather a proof that the mental 
 machine was in disorder, by a distention of the blood- 
 vessels and their engorgement in the brain, that cere- 
 bral excitement was a purely physical phenomenon, de- 
 pendent upon simple, physical causes, which science 
 some day shall define and skill shall counteract ? 
 
 Happily, the fire in the sufferer's brain scorched and 
 consumed the sources of his life, as flames drink up the 
 water that is powerless to quench them. Day by day 
 he wasted; and, in less than a month from that night, 
 Christmas evening, St. Victor Marchand's form was 
 at peace in death. 
 
 During all that time Dr. Graham never left the suffer- 
 er's bedside. Day and night he was there at his post, 
 doing all that was possible to alleviate the pain. The 
 skill of a physician and the love of a brother were ex- 
 hausted in that battle with death in its most dreaded 
 form. 
 
 His care was. too, required for Miss Edith. Her life 
 was so interwoven with that of her brother, that the 
 3*
 
 3O The Skeleton at the Banquet. 
 
 doctor doubted if she could survive the shock to her 
 sympathies and affection. When the surprise of the 
 tragedy was over, on the day following the first out- 
 burst of the malady, she told him that for months she 
 had feared the worst. She had remarked symptoms so 
 like her father's as to excite her fears; yet, with the 
 happiness of youth, the sister persuaded herself that her 
 apprehensions were groundless. His sunny nature 
 seemed proof against the approach of an evil so 
 blasting; and her momentary fears were banished by 
 the very mood of heightened vivacity and excitement 
 which had awakened them. Having no intimate friend 
 in whom to confide, none to counsel, she had borne the 
 weight of her inward sorrow and dread alone. 
 
 At intervals, during Christmas day, she had observed 
 an incoherency in her brother's speech, and an unwonted 
 nervousness of manner, which had inspired her with seri- 
 ous alarm. When he proposed to drive out, she encour- 
 aged the suggestion, hoping that the cold air might re- 
 store him to his usual state. Upon his return with Dr. 
 Graham, he had seemed so entirely like himself, so hap- 
 py, so disposed to enjoyment, that she once more dis- 
 missed every thought of danger, until she overheard the 
 sharp whispers in which he addressed his guest. 
 
 " And oh, to think," she cried, while the tears rained 
 down her cheeks, " that in his love for me, his madness 
 should take the shape of beholding the conditions of his 
 own brain reflected in mine I He was so afraid harm 
 would come to me, thoughtful of me so long as even
 
 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 31 
 
 the shadow of sanity remained. Dear, dear St. Victor, 
 so good, so pure, so wise ! Why was not I the vic- 
 tim, if it was fated that there must be one ? " Then lift- 
 ing her tearful eyes, " Doctor, perhaps the poison lurks 
 in my veins, too ! Tell me, do you think there is danger 
 that I, too, shall one day go mad ? " 
 
 " No, poor child, most emphatically, I do not. You 
 must not permit such a fancy to enter your mind. As 
 St. Victor said, you are your mother's image and coun- 
 terpart, in temperament and mental quality, while he, 
 doubtless, in all active or positive elements of constitu- 
 tion and temperament, was his father's reflex. Is it not 
 true ? " 
 
 " I believe so. My dear father used, I know, to think 
 St. Victor nearer to him than I could be. When togeth- 
 er, they looked and acted very much alike. Poor, dear 
 brother ! " and again the tears coursed down her cheeks. 
 
 The doctor was deeply moved; this grief was so inex- 
 pressibly deep as to stir in his heart every emotion of 
 tenderness and sympathy it was possible for a gentle- 
 souled man to feel. 
 
 " I loved him," he said, gently, " before I had known 
 him an hour. His nature was like a magnet, to draw 
 love. Alas ! it is sad, when the promise of such a life is 
 blighted. I would have given my life for his, could it 
 have averted this terrible blow from this house." 
 
 A radiant, soul-full look dwelt in her tear-dimmed eyes. 
 That this man a comparative stranger should man- 
 ifest this interest in her brother aroused all the gratitude 
 and affection of her warm nature.
 
 32 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 
 
 " And I love you, Dr. Graham, for loving him," she 
 said, in the pathos of the language that never speaks un- 
 truthfully, the pathos of irrepressible feeling. Then 
 she added: " Do not leave us, doctor. You are all the 
 friend we have here in this great city. If you leave us 
 I shall, indeed, be alone." 
 
 " I will remain, my dear child, so long as there is need 
 of my services." 
 
 He did not tell her, in so many words, that the case 
 was hopeless; but her eye was quick to see the wasting 
 form and the growing prostration which followed each 
 paroxysm. How those two faithful attendants watched 
 and waited for the end I And in the grief for the sis- 
 ter, the physician's gentleness found that road to a mu- 
 tual devotion, which is sure to open before those who love 
 and wait upon a common object of affection. The doc- 
 tor and sister became, without a consciousness of their 
 real feeling, mutually dependent and trusting. 
 
 In less than a month, as we have written, the skeleton 
 which came to the feast on Christmas night departed 
 from the house to abide on St. Victor Marchand's 
 grave. 
 
 At the next meeting of the Institute, Doctor Graham 
 gave a full account of the case, remarking upon the sin- 
 gular feature in it of the madness assuming an embodi- 
 ment in the sanity of another. From much that Edith 
 told him, as well as from his own observation and knowl- 
 edge, he was convinced that, for months, the young man 
 had detected every minute symptom and development
 
 The Skeleton at the Banquet. 33 
 
 of his disease in his sister; and had a physician been at 
 hand, he could have traced the insidious progress of the 
 malady in the strength of the brother's suspicions re- 
 garding his sister. The facts cited to the Institute 
 touched the compassion of the most practice-hardened 
 physician when Dr. Graham related the strange and 
 pitying tenderness with which young Marchand had 
 watched his sister, and strove to divert from her mind 
 the madness which tainted his blood alone. 
 
 " Alone in this great city. If you leave me, I shall be 
 alone indeed." The words were like an angel's rap upon 
 the heart's door. In his own great trouble, the loss 
 of his wife, the physician deemed himself afflicted be- 
 yond his deserts; but what was his condition compared 
 with that of this youthful, tender, dependent woman, 
 whose loss isolated her from all others ? 
 
 No, not all others. After the first black cloud of 
 her sorrow had drifted away, she turned to him, whose 
 hand had sustained her, even when prayer had left her 
 helpless and hopeless, turned to him with a love 
 that was more than a love, with an adoration, before 
 which the physician bent, in wonder and satisfaction. 
 He drew her to his bosom as something to be kept with 
 all the truth and tenderness of an abiding love. 
 
 The dull office has been exchanged for a home that is 
 like a palace of dreams; and Edith Graham, never for- 
 getting her great sorrow, yet became one of the happiest 
 of all who ever loved.
 
 (35)
 
 LET THOSE LAUGH WHO WIN. 
 
 ]B. PONTIFEX POMPADOUK was a gentle- 
 man whose family record testified to his having 
 breathed the breath of life sixty years, and yet 
 his appearance bore witness to not more than 
 forty. Appearances, however, though they are 
 deceitful, result from causes more or less palpable; and, 
 in this case, they could be naturally accounted for. 
 Ecce testem I 
 
 Mr. Pompadour's complexion was clear and transpar- 
 ent, but it was not his own. His teeth were white 
 and regular, but they were artificial. His hair was 
 black and glossy, but it was dyed. His whiskers were 
 ibid., but they were ditto. His dress was. the perfec- 
 tion of fashion and taste, though rather youthful; and 
 withal he carried himself with a jaunty air, and a light 
 and springing step, smiling blandly on all he met, as if 
 smiles were dollars and he were dispensing them right 
 royally. 
 
 He had an only son, Augustus Fitz Clarence Pompa- 
 dour, who was heir-apparent to the very considerable 
 4 (37)
 
 38 Let those Laugh -who Win. 
 
 property supposed to belong to the "said aforesaid." 
 This son was twenty-three, and had graduated at college 
 with some knowledge of some things, if not of some 
 others. He was a modern Mithridates in his power to 
 withstand strychnine and nicotine; and he had devoted 
 much attention to that branch of geometry which treats 
 of the angles of balls on a cushion. One beautiful trait 
 in his character, however, was his tender affection for 
 his father, which showed itself most touchingly when- 
 ever he was in need of money. 
 
 In person he was prepossessing, having light-blue 
 eyes, dark-brown hair, and a drooping moustache. Nor 
 will I allow that he was a vicious lad. Indolent and 
 useless he certainly was, an insignificant numeral in 
 the great sum of humanity, but a roue he certainly was 
 not. The worst thing about him was his name, and 
 that he received from a weak, silly novel-reading moth- 
 er, who gave her life for his, and, with her dying breath, 
 charged his father to pay this homage to the yellow- 
 covered world in which she had lived. 
 
 If there was anything wanting in the comfortable 
 mansion, where the Pompadours, father and son, kept 
 bachelor's hall, it was the refining and softening influ- 
 ence of woman. And this brings us to the consideration 
 of the skeleton which abode in the closets of Pompa- 
 dour and son. 
 
 The late Mrs. Pompadour had possessed some proper- 
 ty which she had retained after marriage. Before her 
 death she made a will, leaving to Augustus the fee, and
 
 Let those Laugh -who Win. 39 
 
 to his father the income of the estate. In case, how- 
 ever, Augustus should marry before his father did, he 
 was to enter into full possession of the property. Wives, 
 in dying, do not generally offer their husbands a premium 
 for replacing them ; and so the judges inferred that the 
 real meaning of the testatrix would be arrived at by in- 
 serting the letter e in the word " did; " thus making the 
 contingency turn upon Augustus' marrying before his 
 father died. Moreover, the lawyer who drew the will 
 (his ancestor was limned by -^sop in the fable of the 
 Ass in the lion's skin) swore positively to this render- 
 ing being in accordance with the wish of the deceased, 
 and so the courts decided that in the event of Mr. Pom- 
 padour's marrying before his son, he should retain his 
 interest during life. 
 
 Now Mr. Pompadour, aside from mercenary motives, 
 was very uxoriously inclined ; and would doubtless have 
 married years before, had he not sff too high an esti- 
 mate on himself. 
 
 His condition of mind at the beginning of this his- 
 tory might be expressed logically somewhat as fol- 
 lows : 
 
 First, he must get married. 
 
 Second, Augustus must not. 
 
 And Augustus, by analogous reasoning on identical 
 premises, mutatis mutandis, had arrived at a dual con- 
 clusion. 
 
 First, he must get married. 
 
 Second, his father must not.
 
 40 Let those Laugh ivho Win. 
 
 A vigorous system of espionage had been instituted 
 by father and son, on the actions of each other. Skir- 
 mishes had been frequent; and if neither gained any de- 
 cided advantage, neither lost. But the great battle of 
 the war was yet to be fought, and it has been reserved 
 for my pen to inscribe its history. 
 
 In the suburban village where Mr. Pompadour resided 
 was a handsome residence; and its owner, " about visit- 
 ing Europe," offered it for rent. The house was elegant, 
 and the grounds especially fine. They were flanked by 
 two shady streets and fronted on a third. A widow 
 lady with one daughter became the tenant; and, as is 
 usual in such cases, the whole village called upon her, 
 three persons prompted by politeness, and three hun- 
 dred by curiosity. The cards which did duty for the 
 lady in returning these calls, announced her to be " Mrs. 
 Telluria Taragon, nee Trelauney." By the same token 
 her daughter was^iscovered to be " Miss Terpsichore 
 Taragon." 
 
 Mrs. Taragon was one of the most bewitching of wid- 
 ows. About forty (she acknowledged to thirty-three), 
 she was the very incarnation of matronly beauty. She 
 was just tall enough to be graceful, and just plump 
 enough not to be unwieldy. Her eyes were black and 
 dangerous. Her hair was short, and it clustered over 
 her forehead in little ringlets, rather girlish, but very 
 becoming. Her teeth were white and natural, and she 
 had a most fascinating smile, which showed her teeth in 
 a carefully unstudied manner, formed a pretty dimple
 
 Let those Laugh -who Win. 41 
 
 in her chin, and enabled her to look archly without 
 apparent intention. 
 
 Her daughter, Miss Terpsichore, was twenty, with a 
 slender, graceful form, and a pair of rosy cheeks, before 
 whose downy softness the old simile of the peach be- 
 comes wholly inadequate. She had hazel eyes, whose 
 liquid depths reflected the brightest and sunniest of 
 tempers, and dark brown hair, with just a suspicion 
 of golden shimmer filtering through its wavy folds. 
 
 Mrs. Taragon, on the bare charge, could not have 
 escaped conviction as a "designing widow." She not 
 only was on the lookout, perpetually, for an investment 
 of her daughter, but she was flying continually from her 
 cap a white flag of unconditional surrender to the first 
 man bold enough to attack herself. 
 
 Mr. Pontifex Pompadour " availed himself of an early 
 opportunity " to call upon Mrs. Taragon. His fame 
 had preceded him; and that estimabte lady, who was in 
 her boudoir when he was announTOd, gave a small 
 shriek of dismay at her dishevelled appearance. How- 
 ever, no one need be alarmed at such a manifestation on 
 the part of a " lady of fashion." It is indicative of per- 
 fect satisfaction with her general effect, Mrs. Taragon 
 flew to her mirror to shake out another curl and her 
 flounces ; smiled bewitchingly by way of rehearsal ; bit 
 her lips frantically to bring the blood to them, and 
 walked aimlessly about the room for a few moments 
 with her hands above her head, to send the blood out of 
 them. Then picking up her handkerchief daintily, and 
 4*
 
 42 Let those Laugh who Win. 
 
 going downstairs slowly, that her cheeks might not be 
 too much flushed, she acquired sudden animation at the 
 parlor-door, and burst into the room with an elaborate 
 rustle, and a thousand apologies for having kept Mr. 
 Pompadour waiting so long, and wasn't " the day per- 
 fectly lovely ? " 
 
 If a conversation be interesting, or serve in any way 
 to develop the plot of a story, I hold that it should be 
 given at full length ; but the polite nothings which were 
 repeated at this interview, came under neither of these 
 heads. They served only to display Mr. Pompadour's 
 false teeth, and Mrs. Taragon's real ones (and the dim- 
 ple) through the medium of Mr. P.'s real smile and Mrs. 
 T.'s false one. 
 
 The two parted mutually pleased, and Mrs. Taragon 
 said to herself, as she resumed the novel she had dropped 
 at Mr. Pompadour's entrance, " If I marry him, I will 
 have that set of sables, and those diamonds I saw at 
 Tiffany's." 
 
 Mr. Pompadour beheaded a moss rose with his cane, 
 as he stepped jauntily down the walk, and remarked to 
 his inner self, " A monstrous fine woman that, and I 
 may say, without vanity, that she was struck with my 
 appearance. Why, ho I who the devil's that ? " 
 
 The acute reader will perceive a slight incoherence in 
 the latter portion of this remark. It was due to a sight 
 which met Mr. Pompadour's gaze on stepping into the 
 street from Mrs. Taragon's domain. This was nothing 
 else than Augustus Fitz Clarence walking leisurely up
 
 Let those Laugh ivho Win. 43 
 
 the street with a young lady whom we know but the 
 illustrious parent did not to be Miss Terpsichore Tar- 
 agon. 
 
 " Confound the boy ! " said the old gentleman, " I 
 wonder who he's got there ? Just like his father, 
 though ! For I may say, without vanity, that I was a 
 tremendous fellow among the girls." 
 
 Augustus Fitz Clarence was not at all pleased at this 
 chance rencontre. The intimacy with the charming 
 widow, which it strongly hinted at, brought vividly to 
 his mind its possible results upon his own prospects. 
 And, moreover, he was conscious of a peculiar and novel 
 sensation in regard to the young lady, which made him 
 rather shamefaced under the paternal eye. In short, 
 he was in love. All the symptoms were apparent: a 
 rush of blood to the face, and a stammering in the 
 speech, whenever proximity to the infecting object in- 
 duced a spasm. lie also had the secondary symptoms, 
 a sensation of the spinal cord, as if molasses were being 
 poured down the back, and a general feeling i{ all over," 
 such as little boys call " goose-flesh," and which is ordi- 
 narily occasioned by a ghost story, or a cold draught 
 from an open doorway. 
 
 To the writer, who stands upon the high level of the 
 philosophic historian, it is evident that the same feelings 
 warmed the gentle breast of Terpsichore that burned in 
 the bosom of Augustus. To furnish food, however, for 
 the unextinguishable laughter of the gods, this fact is 
 never made clear to the principals themselves till the
 
 44 Lei those Laugh u>ho Win. 
 
 last moment. " And so from hour to hour we ripe and 
 ripe .... and thereby hangs a tale." 
 
 With the foregoing paragraph, I bridge over an 
 " hiatus, as it were," of several months. 
 
 Respect for truth obliges me to record the fact, that 
 Mrs. Taragon regarded her daughter with that unchris- 
 tian feeling called jealousy. But, if a heartless, she was a 
 shrewd woman, and she meant to dispose of Terpsichore 
 advantageously. 
 
 There was, at this time, and I believe there is still, in 
 the village of which I write, an " order of the garter," 
 under the control of one Mrs. Grundy, the motto of 
 which was: "Those are evil of whom we evil speak." 
 Its evening meetings were familiarly known as the 
 "nights of the sewing-circle; " and it was the duty of 
 each member to attend to everybody's business but his 
 own. An agent of this order promptly put Mrs. Tara- 
 gon in possession of everything which had been discov- 
 ered or invented concerning Mr. Pompadour, not forget- 
 ting to enlarge upon the conditions of the will. Mrs. 
 Taragon thereupon resolved to marry Mr. Pompadour; 
 for, in addition to other reasons, she confessed to herself 
 that she really liked him. As may be supposed, there- 
 fore, she looked with much disfavor on the increasing 
 intimacy between the young people; but she feared 
 that any violent attempt to rupture it would precipi- 
 tate the very result she would avoid. She sat, one day, 
 in a brown study, regarding the subject in all its bear-
 
 Let those Laugh -who Win. 45 
 
 ings, with her comely cheek resting upon her plump 
 hand, and, at last, arrived at a conclusion. 
 
 " I think it would not be wise," she said, consulting 
 the mirror to see if her hand had left any mark upon 
 her cheek, "to interfere just at present; at any rate, 
 not till I am sure of Mr. Pompadour; but I will keep a 
 close watch upon them." 
 
 Not many days afterwards, a picturesque group occu- 
 pied the bow-window of Mrs. Taragon's drawing-room. 
 Mrs. T. herself, quite covered with an eruption of wors- 
 ted measles, was the principal figure. At her feet, like 
 Paul at Gamaliel's, sat Augustus; but, unlike Paul, he 
 held a skein of worsted. Nestling on an ottoman in the 
 recess of the window was Terpsichore, inventing floral 
 phenomena in water-colors, and looking very bewitching. 
 
 " 'Twas a fair scene." As under the shade of some 
 far-spreading oak, when noon holds high revel in the 
 heavens, the gentle flock cluster in happy security, fear- 
 ing no dire irruption of lupine enemy, so 
 
 " Mr. Pompadour," announced the servant.- 
 
 " The devil ! " echoed Augustus Fitz Clarence. 
 
 Mrs. Taragon's first impulse was to spring up and 
 greet her visitor cordially. Her second, to do no such 
 thing. Napoleon said, " An opportunity lost is an oc- 
 casion for misfortune." Here was her Austerlitz or her 
 Waterloo ! With the rapidity of genius, she laid the 
 plot for a little comedy of " The Jealous Lovers," to the 
 success of which the actors themselves unwittingly con- 
 tributed.
 
 46 Let those Laiigh who Win. 
 
 Half rising, she acknowledged Mr. Pompadour's 
 elaborate bow, and, motioning him gracefully to a seat, 
 sank back into her chair. Then, pretending that the 
 worsted was knotted, she bent her curls so near Angus-, 
 tus' face, and made a whispered remark with such a 
 conscious air, that the blood rushed to that young man's 
 face in an instant. 
 
 " I saw you out riding yesterday, Mr. Pompadour," 
 said the cheerful widow, pleased that her first shot had 
 taken effect. " And what' a beautiful horse ! and you 
 ride so gracefully!" 
 
 "Thank you, madam," said Mr. Pompadour, stiffly; 
 " I think I may say, without vanity, that I do ride tol- 
 erably well/' 
 
 " And you," to the son, " now your father is present, 
 I must call you Mr. Augustus, may I not ? " she said, 
 coaxingly. The " Mr." was emphasized, as if when 
 alone she did not use it. But this was, of course, unin- 
 tentional. 
 
 Now Augustus, for some time, had endeavored to in- 
 gratiate himself with Mrs. Taragon, but with little 
 success, and, therefore, he was utterly unable to com- 
 prehend her sudden benignity. He glanced at his 
 father, and met the eyes of that individual glaring on 
 him with the look of an ogre deprived of his baby lunch. 
 He glanced at Terpsichore, but that young lady was 
 absorbed with a new discovery in botany. He glanced 
 at Mrs. Taragon, but she was calmly winding worsted. 
 
 " Terpy, dear," said her mother, " do show Mr. Pom-
 
 Let those Laugh -who Win. 47 
 
 padour some of your drawings. My dear little girl is 
 so devoted to art ! " she exclaimed, enthusiastically, as 
 the daughter rose to bring her portfolio. " Take care, 
 Mr. Augustus; you know worsted is a dreadful thing to 
 snarl." Augustus had involuntarily sprung up to offer 
 his assistance, but he sank back in confusion. 
 
 " Are you fond of engravings? Mr. Pompadour ? " 
 asked the young lady, sweetly. 
 
 " Ah I yes I I I think I may say without vanity," 
 began Mr. Pompadour, but he finished silently to him- 
 self, " D me, I'll make her jealous ! " Whose Auster- 
 litz or Waterloo should it be ? He put on his eye-glass 
 to inspect the volume, and for a little while almost for- 
 got his egotism in admiration of the beauty of nature 
 beside him, if not of the beauties of art before him. 
 
 Augustus was not slow in perceiving that, for some 
 unknown reason, Mrs. Taragon's attention was gained, 
 and he tried desperately to improve the occasion. Every 
 once in a while, however, his eyes would wander toward 
 his father, who played his part with so much skill that 
 the bosom of Augustus was soon filled with burnings, 
 and the mind of the widow with perplexities. The gen- 
 tle heart of Terpsichore was grieved also, and her mind 
 sorely puzzled at the enigmatical conduct of those about 
 her, while she was somewhat annoyed at the pertina- 
 cious attentions of the elder P. 
 
 The distinguished gentleman who wrote so graphically 
 about the " Elbows of the Mincio," must confess that 
 our Quadrilateral is only second to that which he has
 
 48 Let those Laugh -who Win. 
 
 helped to embalm in history. The Irishman's experience 
 with the large boot and the small one, and the other pair 
 similarly mismated, was here reproduced with painful 
 reality. Some evil genius had scattered wormwood on 
 the air, and asphyxia, or something worse, seemed likely 
 to supervene, when the entrance of another visitor broke 
 the charm, and the tete-a-tete, and the gentlemen fled. 
 
 The thermometer of Mr. Pompadour's temper indi- 
 cated boiling heat. lie sputtered and fumed like an 
 irascible old gentleman as he was, and managed to work 
 himself into a crazy fit of jealousy, about his son and 
 the too fascinating widow ; and, oddly enough, this feel- 
 ing thus aroused by the green-eyed monster, for the 
 time being, quite eclipsed his mercenary muddle. So, 
 upon poor Augustus, as the available subject, fell palpa- 
 ble and uncomfortable demonstrations of paternal dis- 
 pleasure. 
 
 For several days Mr. Pompadour stayed away from 
 Mrs. Taragon's, and that good lady began to fear lest 
 she had overdrawn her account at the bank of his heart, 
 and that further drafts would be dishonored. The 
 thought of such a catastrophe was torture of the most 
 refined quality. By an illogical system of reasoning, 
 peculiar to the female mind, she imagined that Terpsi- 
 chore was the cause of his desertion, and that young 
 lady thereupon became the recipient of an amount of 
 small spite and aggravated vindictiveness, which re- 
 flected great credit upon Mrs. Taragon's inquisitorial 
 capabilities.
 
 Let those Laugh ivho Win. 49 
 
 She had, it must be obvious, set her heart upon having 
 those diamonds from Tiffany's. . 
 
 At the end of a week, however, Mr. Pompadour called 
 upon Mrs. Taragon, and this time he found her alone. 
 His countenance gave proof of some desperate resolu- 
 tion. His attire was more than usually elegant. His 
 hair and whiskers were a trifle blacker and glossier than 
 ever. He had a rose in his button-hole, and yellow kids 
 on his hands. Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed 
 (I sincerely trust ) like unto him I Mrs. Taragon rose 
 cordially, and held out to him her plump little hand; it 
 lay a moment in his, as if asking to be squeezed. Mr. 
 Pompadour looked as if he would like to squeeze it, and 
 perhaps he did. 
 
 The lady's cordiality soon gave place to a timid shy- 
 ness. To use a military phrase, she was " feigning a re- 
 treat." Mr. Pompadour waxed bold and advanced. 
 The conversation skirmished awhile, the widow occasion- 
 ally making a sally, and driving in the enemy's outposts, 
 his main body meanwhile steadily approaching. The 
 tone in which they conducted hostilities, however, grad- 
 ually fell, and if one had been near enough he might have 
 heard Mr. Pompadour remark, with a kind of quiet sat- 
 isfaction, " For I think 1 may say, without vanity, I 
 still possess some claim to good looks." The widow's 
 reply was so low that our reporter failed to catch it, and 
 then military phraseology avaunt ! the old veteran 
 knelt on the carpet, and surrendered at discretion. 
 
 " Good gracious, Mr. Pompadour ! " exclaimed the 
 5
 
 50 Let those Laugh -who Win. 
 
 widow, with well-feigned alarm, at the same time picking 
 a thread off her dress, " Do get up, somebody may come 
 in I" 
 
 " Never ! " said the old hero stoutly, seeing his advan- 
 tage, and determined to have its full benefit, " at any 
 rate, not till you promise to marry me ! " 
 
 A form passed the window. This time Mrs. Taragon 
 was really frightened. "I will," she said hurriedly; 
 " now get up, and sit down." 
 
 Mr. Pompadour leaped to his feet with the agility of a 
 boy of sixty, and imprinted a kiss lovingly upon the 
 lady's nose, there not being time to capture the right 
 place on the first assault. What followed we will leave- 
 to the imagination of the reader. 
 
 It was now October, and the trees had adorned them- 
 selves in their myriad dyes. The maple had put on 
 crimson, the hickory a rich gold, and the oak a deep 
 scarlet ; while the pine and the hemlock " mingled with 
 brighter tints the living green." 
 
 To the woods one balmy day Augustus and Terpsi- 
 chore went together, to gather leaves for wreaths and 
 screens. Both were carelessly happy, and the pines 
 echoed their merry voices as they laughed and sang. 
 At length the basket, which Augustus carried, was filled 
 with gorgeous booty, and they sat down upon a fallen 
 log, while Terpsichore wove a garland for her hair. No 
 wonder that in the tranquil beauty of the scene their 
 noisy mirth should become hushed. No wonder that,
 
 Let those Laugh -who Win. 51 
 
 as the sun stole through the branches, and like Jove 
 of old fell in a shower of gold about them, upon both 
 their hearts fell the perfect peace of love ! With the 
 full tide of this feeling caine to Augustus the resolve 
 to know his fate; for he felt that upon that answer 
 hung his destiny. 
 
 They sat in silence while he tried to teach his tongue 
 the language of his heart. Then he glanced timidly at 
 the maiden, but her head was drooped low over the 
 wreath, and her cheeks reflected its crimson dye. 
 
 " Miss Taragon," he said, at length, abruptly, " were 
 you ever in love ? " 
 
 She started like a frightened bird. The rich blood 
 lied to her heart, and left her face pallid as marble. 
 
 "I I don't know," she stammered. ' Why do you 
 ask me such a question ? " 
 
 " Because," he said, " then you may know how I feel, 
 and pity me ! O Terpsichore I " he added passionately, 
 " I love you with my whole soul, and if you will but 
 bless me with your love, my whole life shall be devoted 
 to your happiness." 
 
 And so he talked on in an impetuous strain, of min- 
 gled prayer and protestation, which was stereotyped 
 long before the invention of printing. 
 
 Terpsichore's heart beat wildly. The color came and 
 went in her cheeks, and she turned her head away to 
 conceal her emotion. 
 
 The wreath lay finished in her lap; and at last, with 
 a bright smile, she placed it on his forehead; and, clasp-
 
 52 Let those Laugh who Win. 
 
 ing his hand in both her own, she kissed him on the fore- 
 head. And now we might as well leave them alone 
 together. 
 
 Mrs. Taragon, having made sure of Mr. Pompadour, 
 now proceeded to carry out her plan of throwing obsta- 
 cles in the way of the young people. Augustus, of 
 course, was not aware of her complete information in 
 regard to his "property qualifications," and attributed 
 her disfavor to personal dislike. Whatever her motives, 
 however, her actions were unequivocal ; and Terpsichore, 
 especially, had a sorry time of it. So uncomfortable did 
 matters become, that, upon a review of the situation, and 
 an eloquent appeal from Augustus, she consented to take 
 with him that irrevocable step, to which Virgil undoubt- 
 edly alluded under the fine figure of "Dcscensus Averni." 
 In plain English, they resolved to run away and be 
 married. 
 
 I will not weary the reader with details of the prelim- 
 inaries. They are unimportant to my narrative. A 
 note, dispatched by Augustus to the Rev. Ebenezer Fis- 
 cuel, informed that gentleman that about half-past ten 
 o'clock of an appointed evening he would be waited on by 
 a couple desirous of being united in holy matrimony. 
 
 Augustus arranged to have a carriage in waiting un- 
 der Terpsichore's window about ten o'clock, and," with 
 the aid of a ladder and the above-mentioned clergyman, 
 he hoped to settle the vexed question of the property, 
 and render all further opposition to their union of an 
 ex post facto character.
 
 Let those Laugh who Win. 53 
 
 The evening came, and it found Mrs. Taragon and her 
 daughter seated together in the parlor. Terpsichore was 
 crocheting a net, which, like Penelope's, grew very 
 slowly. She was nervous and fidgety. Her eyes wan- 
 dered restlessly from her mother to the door, and she 
 started at the slightest sound. Mrs. Taragon seemed 
 uncommonly suspicious and alert. She was reading, but 
 had not turned a leaf for half an hour. She glanced fur- 
 tively and continually about the room. 
 
 "She has found us out," thought Terpsichore, and 
 her heart almost stopped beating. With a great effort 
 she controlled herself, and had recourse to stratagem. 
 
 " Mother, dear," she said, dropping the net in her lap, 
 " you look tired ; why don't you go to bed ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, darling," said the widow, cheerfully, " I don't 
 feel a bit weary. But your eyes look red, and I think 
 you had better retire." 
 
 " !N"o, mamma, not yet," she replied. " I want to fin- 
 ish this net. I have done so little upon it lately." 
 
 A slight shade of vexation crossed the face of the 
 widow. 
 
 " If you had devoted yourself to the net," she said, 
 spitefully, " it would have been finished." 
 
 Terpsichore blushed guiltily. Augustus had spent 
 more than two hours with her that day; and she felt a 
 presentiment that impending wrath was about to de- 
 scend on her devoted head. 
 
 "I am sure, mother," she said, quietly, "</ou cant 
 complain of my seeing too much company." 
 5*
 
 54 Let those Laugh who Win. 
 
 This shot told; for Mr. Pompadour had been very 
 attentive of late. 
 
 Mrs. Taragon nearly tore a leaf out of her book. 
 
 " At any rate," she retorted, " my visitors are respect- 
 able." 
 
 Terpsichore's lip quivered. The remark was cruel, 
 but it roused her spirit. 
 
 " If my company is not respectable," she said, with 
 an incipient sob, " it is the fault of his bringing up." 
 
 Mr. Pompadour was hit this time, right between his 
 eyes. The widow blazed. 
 
 " You you you minx," she said, angrily, " I be- 
 lieve you'd like to see me dead, and out of your 
 way ! " 
 
 The remark was utterly irrelevant; but she saw it in 
 the book, and thought it would be dramatic. 
 
 Terpsichore burst into tears, and beat a retreat in dis- 
 order. As she left the room, Mrs. Taragon said to her- 
 self, with a sigh of relief, 
 
 " Well, the coast is clear for Pompadour, and she's 
 safe for to-night, any way." 
 
 Which was a slight mistake. 
 
 " Ten o'clock came, and with it the carriage^ A man 
 glided silently underneath Terpsichore's window, and 
 a ladder was reared against the wall. Silently the 
 window opened, and a form descended the ladder, and 
 was clasped in an equally silent embrace at the foot. 
 Terpsichore had not entirely recovered her spirits, but 
 she stifled her emotions for the sake of Augustus. For
 
 Let those Laugh who Win. 55 
 
 the same reason she did not scold him for rumpling her 
 bonnet. Hurrying into the carriage, they drove rapidly 
 away. 
 
 As they turned the corner into the principal street, 
 another carriage, going in the same direction, came up 
 behind them at a quick trot Augustus sprang to his 
 feet, and peered out into the darkness. " Betrayed," 
 was the thought which flashed through his mind, and 
 he muttered an eighteen-cornered oath. Terpsichore 
 clung to his coat with an energy which indirectly re- 
 flected lasting credit upon his tailor. 
 
 " Put on more steam," whispered Augustus hoarsely 
 to the driver, and the horses dashed onward at a break- 
 neck pace, soon leaving the other carriage far behind. 
 
 At the rate they were going, it took but a few min- 
 utes to reach the parsonage. Directing the coachman 
 to drive round the corner and wait, Augustus half-led, 
 half-carried the trembling girl into the house. The 
 Rev. Fiscuel's family and one or two neighbors were 
 assembled in the parlor. The ceremony was soon per- 
 formed, and an earnest blessing invoked upon the mar- 
 ried life of the young people. As they were receiving 
 the congratulations suited to the occasion, a juvenile 
 Fiscuel came in, and whispered something to his father. 
 Mr. Fiscuel, with a smile, turned to Augustus, saying, 
 " My son tells me that your father is coming in at the 
 gate with a lady." 
 
 The newly-married looked at each other in mute 
 surprise. " I'll bet a hat," exclaimed Augustus, sud-
 
 56 Let those Laugh who Win. 
 
 denly, "it's your mother; and they've come to get 
 married I " 
 
 The Rev. Ebenezer spoke eagerly: " Did you send me 
 two messages this morning V " 
 
 " No! " said Augustus; " of course I did not." 
 
 " Then they have, verily," exclaimed the clergyman, 
 in a tone of very unclerical excitement ; " for I received 
 two messages from ' Mr. Pompadour.' I spoke of the 
 singularity at the time." 
 
 " Can you hide us somewhere ? " said Augustus, " till 
 you've ' done ' the old gentleman ? " 
 
 " Come in here," said Mrs. Fiscuel, who had her 
 share of that leaven of unrighteousness which is usually 
 called fun. As she spoke, she opened the drawing- 
 room door. 
 
 The Rev. Ebenezer sat down to write a certificate for 
 Augustus; and, as one door closed upon the young 
 couple, the other opened to admit the older one. If not 
 in as great a hurry as their children, they seemed 
 equally desirous of making assurance doubly sure. The 
 family and the witnesses, who had followed Mrs. Fiscuel 
 out of the apartment, were again summoned, and, for a 
 second time that evening, the words were spoken which 
 made a Pompadour and a Taragon " one bone and one 
 flesh." Watching the proceedings through the crevice 
 of the half-opened door, was a couple not counted 
 among the " witnesses," and certainly not invited by the 
 principals. 
 
 "When the ceremony was over, Augustus and Terpsi-
 
 Let those Laugh who Win. 57 
 
 chore entered the room. Their appearance created 
 what " Jenkins " would call " a profound sensation." 
 Mr. Pompadour looked bowie-knives and six-shooters. 
 Mrs. P., darning-needles and stilettoes. Augustus was 
 self-possessed. Perhaps he remembered the old saying, 
 " Let those laugh who win." 
 
 " "We happened here not knowing you were coming," 
 he said, addressing both; "wont you accept our con- 
 gratulations." 
 
 Suddenly Mrs. Pompadour nee Trelawney, gave a 
 scream, and fell back in a chair, with symptoms of 
 hysterics. She had caught sight of the ring on her 
 daughter's finger, and comprehended everything in 
 an instant, the carriage which had fled before them 
 as they left the house; this "accidental" visit to the 
 minister's; and, worse than all, how she had been out- 
 witted I 
 
 Terpsichore sprang forward to assist her. 
 
 " Go away from me I Go away I Don't let her touch 
 me! " she screamed, throwing her arms about like a 
 wind-mill. " 1 wont have it ! I wont I I wont 1 " 
 
 Mr. Pompadour, during this outburst, showed signs 
 of exasperation; apparently, however, he did not see 
 the point, but was fast concluding that he had married a 
 lunatic. 
 
 Terpsichore was frightened and began to cry. Au- 
 gustus, to reassure her, put his arm around her waist. At 
 this, the senior Mrs. Pompadour sprang up, and seized 
 her husband by the arm, so energetically that it made
 
 58 Let those Laugh who Win. 
 
 him wince. Pointing to the tell-tale ring with a gesture 
 worthy of Kistori, she managed to articulate: "Don't 
 you see it ? That undutiful girl has married Augustus, 
 and and he has married her I 
 
 Mr. Pompadour " saw it," and uttered some words 
 which were not a blessing.
 
 THE PROPER USE OF GRANDFATHERS.
 
 THE PROPER USE OF GRANDFATHERS, 
 
 F people without grandfathers are in need of 
 any particular solace, they may find it in the 
 fact that those cumbrous contingencies of ex- 
 istence cannot be continually stuck in their 
 faces. A wise man has remarked, that the moderns 
 are pigmies standing upon the shoulders of giants. 
 He would have been wiser still, had he observed how 
 frequently the giants change places with the pigmies, 
 and ride them to death like Old Men of the Sea. If, 
 at sixteen, I have the dyspepsia and a tendency to 
 reflect on the problems of my being, I am begged to 
 notice that, at a corresponding period old Jones, of the al- 
 ternate generation, was gambolling o'er the dewy meads, 
 a gleesome boy. If my baby cries and is puny at teeth- 
 ing-time, the oracles, with an intuitive perception how 
 my grandfather behaved a hundred years before they 
 were born, tell me it was not so in his day; that heaven 
 lay about him in his infancy; but that none of the arti- 
 cle exists either in that loose condition or otherwise for 
 6 (59)
 
 60 The Proper use of Grandfathers. 
 
 the immature human animal who breaks out of darkness 
 and mystery into this day of gum-rings. If the tre- 
 mendous pace at which the modern world is going 
 knocks me up at forty, and compels me to keep my stall 
 for a year ot valetudinarianism, I am asked to remem- 
 ber what a hale old fellow the same inevitable ancestor 
 was at ninety; I am inundated with his exuberance of 
 spirits, overwhelmed with the statistics of his teeth; and 
 invited in the mind's eye (in my own, too, if I know 
 myself !) to take six-mile walks with him before break- 
 fast unassisted by a cane. It is not a pleasant state of 
 mind to be disgusted with one's forefathers, who would, 
 probably, have been very jolly fellows to know, and not 
 the least in the world like the people who are all the 
 time boring us about them. If there is truth in spirit- 
 ualism, a delegation from those fine old boys will, some 
 of these days, take advantage of a sitting, and rap out an 
 indignant disclaimer of the bosh that is talked in their 
 name. If my grandfather was not a much more un- 
 pleasant person than myself, he would scorn to be made 
 a boguey of for the annoyance of his own flesh and 
 blood. Any man of well-regulated mind must prefer 
 utter oblivion among his descendants to such perpetua- 
 tion as that of Mr. Wilfer. 
 
 "Your grandpapa," retorted Mrs. Wilfer, with an 
 awful look, and in an awful tone, " was what I describe 
 him to have been, and would have struck any of his 
 grandchildren to the earth who presumed to question 
 it."
 
 The Proper use of Grandfathers. 61 
 
 If our ancestors could return to the earth, it is little 
 likely that their first inclination would be to goody them- 
 selves over the excellence of their own period, or pull 
 faces at the degeneracy of ours. Sleepers in ill-venti- 
 lated, or rather entirely non-ventilated apartments, eat- 
 ers of inordinate late suppers, five-bottle men, and for 
 the most part wearers of sadly unphilosophical raiment, 
 those sturdy old fox-hunters would acknowledge it just 
 cause for astonishment that their children have any con- 
 stitutions at all. Little motive for self-laudation would 
 they find in the fact, that, after drawing out their ac- 
 count with Nature to the last dime, they had taken a 
 respectable first-cabin passage to the Infinite Boulogne 
 just before the great Teller said "No funds," and 
 shoved back their checks through the window, leaving 
 to their children the heritage of a spotless name and the 
 declaration of physiological bankruptcy. 
 
 Nor would they content themselves, I fancy, with 
 the negative ground of mere humility. They would 
 have something very decided to say to the wiseacres, 
 who taunt our wives in the agony of tic-doloureux with 
 the statement that their grandmothers knew nothing of 
 neuralgia. " No ! " these generous ancients would re- 
 tort, " that is the residuary legacy of a generation to 
 whom we left a nervous system of worn-out fiddle 
 strings." To such as talk of that woful novelty diph- 
 theria as a crime of the present age,, they would point 
 out the impossibility of a race's throat descending to it 
 without tenderness, a race's blood flowing to it without
 
 62 The Proper use of Grandfathers. 
 
 taint, from ancestors who swaddled their necks in fath- 
 oms of cravat, and despised the question of sewage. 
 When I had the gout, and could not stand up for myself, 
 those brave vieilles moustaches would stand up for me. 
 " Many a fine old bin of our port," would they exclaim, 
 " has been emptied down through the seons into those 
 innocent toes of thine. I mind me how I smacked my 
 lips over that very bottle whose broken glass now grinds 
 around, red-hot, in the articulation of thy metatarsal pha- 
 langes. Dancing at thy fair great-grandmother's wed- 
 ding, I slaked the thirst of many vigorous sarabands in 
 that identical ruby nectar, which, turned by the alchemy 
 of generations into acid blood, now through thy great 
 toe distils in gouts of fiery torture. I danced ; thou, 
 poor Sero-natus, dancest not, but dost pay the piper." 
 
 Suppose that our returning ancestors regarded us in 
 the intellectual and spiritual, as well as the physical 
 aspect, they must find still less reason to put on airs of 
 superiority. If, in the sphere where they have been 
 lately moving, improvement goes on as fast as we be- 
 lieve, they may be expected to wonder that the theolog- 
 ical and scholastic training of their own earthly day has 
 not resulted in a present race of imbeciles and fetish- 
 worshippers, or Torquemadas and madmen. With 
 thankful astonishment will they revere that nature whose 
 boundless elasticity and self-repair has brought bright 
 and self-reliant, even though sometimes a trifle too pert 
 and iconoclastic, Young America from loins burdened, 
 through all their period of cartilage, with five days and
 
 The Proper use of Grandfather. 63 
 
 a half per week of grammar-grinding, a Saturday after- 
 noon of "keeping in for marks," and a seventh day 
 which should have been the Lord's, but was conspic- 
 uously liker the devil's. 
 
 Woman, religion, and the forefathers are all the vic- 
 tims of a false quality of reverence. The world has im- 
 memorially paid them in the coin of lip-service for the 
 privilege of using their sacredness as a yoke. They are 
 defrauded of their true power by the hands that waft 
 them hypocritical incense; bought off the ground where 
 their influence might be precious and permanent, by the 
 compliment of a moment, or the ceremony of a day. 
 We pick up the fan of the first, and shoulder her out of 
 her partnership in our serious business of living. We 
 build temples for the second, that she may not gad 
 about among our shops, or trouble the doors of our 
 houses. In the third, we do superstitious homage to a 
 mere accident of time, and feel free to neglect the genial 
 lesson of humanity which is eternal. 
 
 It is impossible not to reverence our forefathers 
 those grand old fellows who, long before we rose, got 
 up to build the fires, and shovel the sidewalks of this 
 world. The amount of work which they did was im- 
 mense; great was their poking and their pushing; their 
 thrashing of arms, and their blowing of fingers. If they 
 sometimes made a compromise with their job; if here 
 and there they left the gutters uncleared, or a heavy 
 drift to thaw over under the sun of modern conscience, 
 and flood our streets with revolution; if they built some 
 6*
 
 64 The Proper use of Grandfathers. 
 
 of their fires with wet wood, which unto this day smokes 
 the parlors, or even the inmost bed-chambers of man- 
 kind, let us remember how frosty the dawn was, how 
 poorly made were the tools and mittens of the period. 
 All honor to their work, and the will with which they 
 went at it I But when we are asked to regret the rising 
 of the sun; to despise a time of day when there are no 
 more fires to build, no more walks to shovel ; or, if such 
 anywhere remain, when there are snow-ploughs and 
 patent-kindling to use in their behoof distinctly No ! 
 
 a Ko as everlasting as Mr. Carlyle's, and spelt with 
 as big a capital. 
 
 The mistake of that great writer and minor disciple 
 of the Belated-Owl school to which he belongs, nat- 
 urally arises, not from the over-development of rever- 
 ence, to which it is generally ascribed, but from a con- 
 stitutional divorce between the poetic imagination and 
 the power of analysis. The former faculty, by itself, 
 results in impatience with the meaner actualities of life, 
 
 a divine impatience in great poets, a petulant in small 
 ones. Lacking the latter faculty, such persons are in the 
 condition of a near-sighted man placed without chart or 
 compass at the helm of a free-going clipper. Making 
 no allowance for the fact that the blemished and the 
 trivial disappear with distance, and, ignorant of the di- 
 rection in which humanity must steer, they put out with 
 disgust from a shore where every old clam-shell and 
 rotten wreck is as conspicuous to those, at least, who 
 look for it as the orange-groved cliffs, and the fair retir-
 
 The Proper use of Grandfathers. 65 
 
 ing stretches of greensward, to voyage for some scarce 
 descried Atlantis gemming the horizon ring with an 
 empurpled roundness born of vapor, time, and space. 
 To such, the future might be a noble course to lay; but 
 that lies beyond the horizon, and impatience is not con- 
 sistent with faith. On, then, on to the farthest visible, 
 but westward, while the grand fleet of humanity sails 
 last. Into shadow which drowns the petty details of 
 existence, not toward a shore which shall be reached 
 only by long buffeting and weary watching, whose noble 
 scenery, glorious w^th all the temples and trophies of 
 the latest age, shall bear unshamed the scrutiny of the 
 full-risen sun. 
 
 The application of scientific processes to the study of 
 history has revealed the steady amelioration of the race. 
 The mail of chivalric giants is brought out of romance's 
 armory to the profane test of a vulgar trying on, and, 
 behold, it is too small for the foot-soldier of to-day. 
 Population everywhere increases, while the rates of 
 mortality diminish. The average longevity of the peo- 
 ple of London is greater, by something like twenty-five 
 per cent, than it was a century ago. The improvement 
 of machinery is more and more lifting the yoke of phys- 
 ical labor from the neck of man, leaving his mind freer 
 to cope with the higher problems of his own nature and 
 the universe without. Not as a matter of platform en- 
 thusiasm and optimist poetry, but of office statistics, do 
 we know that the world is an easier and better place 
 to live in, and that a man is luckier to be born into it,
 
 66 The Proper use of Grandfathers. 
 
 than in the day of the fathers. So much has changed, 
 and changed for the better. That analysis, which the 
 Carlylists lack, reveals still other changes worked by 
 the course of time in the phenomena of the race, 
 such changes as concern the habits of society, the styles 
 of literature, the systems of political economy and com- 
 mercial order, the tenets of philosophy, the schools of 
 art, the forms of government and religion. This analy- 
 sis further reveals that, while all these functions of life 
 are in their nature endlessly mutable, the organic man, 
 from whom, under all variations, thgy get their vis viva, 
 remains from age to age eternally the same. While 
 each successive generation has its fresh, particular busi- 
 ness on the earth, something to do for the race, which 
 succeeding generations will not have the time, even 
 as prior generations had not the light, to do, some- 
 thing which is wanted right away, something for 
 which it was sent and for which the whole machine-shop 
 of time had been shaping the material to be worked by 
 its special hand, analysis discloses that the capital 
 upon which every business is to be carried on undergoes 
 neither increase nor diminution. There is just as much 
 faith, just as much courage, just as much power in the 
 world as there ever was. They do not show themselves 
 in Eunnymedes, because Runnymede has been attended 
 to; nor in wondrous Abbot Sampsons, because monkery 
 is mainly cured. They are not manifest in martyred 
 Edwardses, because at this day Edwards could call a 
 policeman ; nor in burning Cranmers, because society has
 
 The Proper use of Grandfathers. 67 
 
 made a phenomenal change in her method with martyrs 
 and shuts them in a refrigerator, where once she chained 
 . them to a stake. They do not appear in French Revo- 
 lutions, because the world has grown through a second 
 American Revolution, grander than the first, and a 
 great representative native has plucked Liberty out of 
 the fire without one scorch of license on her garments. 
 They seek no outlet in crusade, for Jerusalem has been 
 made of as little consequence as Barnegat, by the fulfil- 
 ment of the promise, 
 
 "The hour cometh when ye shall neither in this 
 mountain, nor- yet in Jerusalem, worship the Father, 
 . . . when the true worshippers shall worship him in 
 spirit and in truth." 
 
 I have a little butcher, who is Coeur de Lion in the 
 small. lie does not split heads nor get imprisoned in 
 castles, but has the same capricious force, the same ca- 
 pacity for affront-taking, the same terribleness of retri- 
 bution, and the same power of large, frank forgiveness 
 which belonged to the man who broke the skulls of the 
 Saracens and pardoned his own assassin. I went to 
 school to Frederick the Great. He did not take snuff 
 nor swear in high Dutch, and it was his destiny to be at 
 the head, not of an army of men, but of one hundred as 
 unmanageable boys as ever played hawkey or " fought 
 pillows " in the dormitory. His solution of difficulties 
 was as prompt, his decisions were as inexorable, he had 
 as irascible a temper and as admirable a faculty of or- 
 ganization as his Prussian prototype's. Calvin and
 
 68 The Proper use of Grandfathers. 
 
 Servetus discuss their differences at my dinner-table; 
 the former possesses all his old faith in the inscrutable; 
 the latter all his ancient tendency to bring everything 
 alleged to the tribunal of science, and I may add that 
 Calvin has as little doubt as ever of the propriety of 
 having Servetus cooked, only he postpones the opera- 
 tion, and expects to see it done without his help. I am 
 acquainted with Sir Philip Sidney, the courtly knight 
 and the melodious poet. The chivalry with which he 
 jousted at Kenihvorth and fought at Zutphen are hourly 
 needed in the temptations and harassments of a broker's 
 office, and many's the hard day through which it has 
 'borne him with honor. The pen which he devotes to 
 the Muses is as facile as in the Arcadian time, though 
 the sturdy lance he used to set in rest is substituted by 
 another pen, of the fat office type, consecrated to the 
 back of gold certificates and the support of an unmedise- 
 vally expensive family. 
 
 Looking in all directions round the Avorld, I find the 
 old nobleness, the primeval sublimities of love and 
 courage, faith and justice, which have always kept hu- 
 manity moving, and will keep it to the end. In no age 
 has the quantity of this nobleness been excessive, but so 
 much of it as exists is an imperishable quantity. It is 
 a good interred with no man's bones; it is the indispen- 
 sable preventive of the world's annihilation. Carlyle has 
 been praised for the epigrammatic assertion that noth- 
 ing can be kept without either life or salt. This is true, 
 but not the whole truth; salt will keep beeves, but as
 
 The Proper use of Grandfathers. 69 
 
 for nations and races which have lost their savor, where- 
 withal shall they be salted ? The fact that mankind 
 survive at all is the proof that ages have not tainted 
 them with putrescence. Things live only by the good 
 that there is in them, and the interests to which they 
 appeal; the fields which open to man, in our own day, 
 are so much vaster and inassier than they were in the 
 day of our fathers, that the tax on the activities of the 
 race could not be met by our capital of life if we had lost 
 one particle of the good which supported them. 
 
 When I look at the fathers, I recollect that courage 
 and love, faith and justice, have no swallowing horizon, 
 while all that is petty and base succumbs in one genera- 
 tion to the laws of perspective. It is pleasanter thus. 
 At the grave of the old schoolmaster who flogged us, we 
 remember the silver hair and the apple he gave us once, 
 never the rattan. "We had fathers after the flesh 
 who corrected us, and we gave them reverence," nothing 
 but reverence, when we leaned with tearful eyes over 
 their vacant chairs. If I have ever quarrelled with my 
 friend, when he can return to me no more, I make up 
 with his memory by canonizing him. The tendency to 
 do thus is among the loveliest and divinest things in our 
 nature. But it is a still lovelier and diviner thing to an- 
 ticipate the parallax of time and look upon the present 
 with the same loving, teachable, and reverent eyes, which 
 shall be bent upon it from the standpoint of coming gen- 
 erations, lie to whom the beauty and nobleness of his 
 own time are, throughout all that he deplores in it and
 
 70 The Proper use of Grandfathers. 
 
 in himself, the conspicuous objects of love and venera- 
 tion, who extends the allowance of the dead to the 
 faults of the living, from whom no personal disappoint- 
 ments can ever take away his faith in the abiding divinity 
 of his kind, need never fear that his judgment of the 
 fathers will be a churlish and disrespectful one. The 
 only object which such a man can have in recalling the 
 vices and defects of older generations is to establish 
 their kinship with his own, to prove his era's legitimacy 
 against philosophers who find only pettiness in the 
 present and grandeur in the past. If he cannot make 
 them see the good side by which the modern family 
 receives blood from the ancient, there shall not be any 
 bend sinister on his escutcheon because he neglects to 
 show them the bad one, though he would rather vindi- 
 cate his lineage the other way. To him the organic 
 unity of mankind, throughout all generations, is dearer 
 than the individual reputation of any one of them. 
 
 Having the faith of this organic unity he can look at 
 the errors of the forefathers without pain. They lessen 
 neither his love nor his respect for them. Who is there 
 that would care to know king David only as a very 
 respectable Jew, in a Sunday-school book, who was 
 always successful, invariably pious, and passed his time 
 wholly in playing hymns on a harp with a golden crown 
 upon his head? To almost all young readers, and many 
 an old one, the vindictive psalms seem a shocking inexpli- 
 cability in the sacred canon. The philosopher, however, 
 feels with the illiterate preacher, " It is a comfort to us 

 
 The Proper use of Grandfathers. 71 
 
 poor erring mortals, my brethren, to remember that on 
 one occasion even, David, beloved of the Lord, said not 
 only, ' I am mad,' but ' I am fearfully and wonderfully 
 mad? ' " Not that it would be any comfort to us if that 
 were all we possess of him; but we also have the record 
 of his getting over it. I once knew a little boy who 
 learned to swear out of the psalms, and it must be 
 acknowledged that of good round curses there is in no 
 tongue a much fuller armory. Conscientious persons, 
 who want to damn their enemies without committing sin, 
 no doubt often sit down and read an execratory psalm 
 with considerable relief to their minds. Not in this spirit 
 do men skilled in human nature peruse the grand rages 
 of the many-sided fighting bard ; not because they would 
 cloak their errors with the kingly shadow of his own, 
 do they rejoice that he exists for us to-day just where 
 the rude, large simplicity of his original Hebrew left 
 him, and that tame-handed biography has never been 
 able to pumice him down into a demi-god. They are 
 glad because these things prove him human and imitable. 
 If his stormy soul triumphed over itself; if he could be 
 beloved of the Infinite at a moment when the surges of 
 both outer and inner vicissitude seemed conspiring to 
 sweep him away, then we cease to hear his swearing 
 or the clamor of his despair; and to us, whose modern 
 spirits are not exempt from flood and hurricane, his 
 grand voice chants only cheer down the centuries, and 
 we know that there is love caring and victory waiting
 
 for us also in our struggle, since we are not the lonely 
 anomalies of time. 
 
 As with David so with all the men of the past, it 
 gives us no pain to find that they were not a whit nearer 
 perfection than ourselves. We do not regret their super- 
 seded customs, nor wish them restored in the living age. 
 He who takes them from the time of which they are a 
 congruous part and seeks to import them into a day 
 which has no explanatory relevance to them, so far from 
 showing them reverence, is like a man who, to compel the 
 recognition of his grandfather's tombstone, strips it of 
 its moss, scrubs it with soap and sand, and sets it up on 
 Broadway among signs and show-cases. Their opinions 
 are not final with us, because every age brings new proofs, 
 and every generation is a new court of appeal. Their 
 business methods are framed upon a hypothesis which 
 does not include the telegraph or the steam-engine. 
 Where a man can persuade his correspondents to send 
 their letters by the coach and their goods by the freight- 
 wagon, he may adjust himself very comfortably to the 
 good old way by which his grandfather made a fortune 
 and preserved his health to a great age. Until he gets 
 his mail weekly and answers it all in a batch, recuperat- 
 ing from that labor by the sale of merchandise, one box 
 to an invoice, he is simply absurd to lament over the 
 rapidity with which fortunes are made at this day, and 
 eulogize the " sure and slow " process by which a life- 
 time whose sole principle was the avoiding of risks at- 
 tained the same object. As if the whole problem of
 
 The Proper use of Grandfathers. 73 
 
 life were not how to secure, as quick as possible, all the 
 material good necessary for living, in order to leave the 
 kind free for all its higher functions of self-develop- 
 ment and discipline. As if money were not a mere ex- 
 pression of the extent to which a man has subordinated 
 the forces of the world to his own use, a thing, there- 
 fore, which naturally comes quicker to a generation 
 which has taken all the great atmospheric and impon- 
 derable couriers into its service I 
 
 The true use of ancestors is not slavish; we do not 
 want them for authority, but for solace. If my grand- 
 father could come back, he certainly would be too much 
 of a gentleman to sit down on my hat or put his feet on 
 my piano: and how much less would he crush my con- 
 victions or trample on my opinions ! He would be 
 equally too much of a business-man to interfere in the 
 responsibilities of any practical course I might take, 
 when he had not looked into the books of the concern, 
 taken account of its stock, or consulted the world's mar- 
 ket-list for an entire generation. He would do what any 
 man would be proud to have his grandfather do, take 
 the easiest and most distinguished chair at the fireside, 
 and tell us night by night, the story of his life. "What 
 roars of laughter would applaud his recollection of jokes 
 uttered by some playmate of his boyhood. They would 
 seem so droll to us at the distance of a hundred years, 
 though a contemporary might have uttered them without 
 raising a smile on our faces. What mingling of tears and 
 laughter would there be when he related some simple
 
 74 The Proper use of Grandfathers. 
 
 little family drama, its pathos depending on incidents 
 as slender as the death of Auld Robin Gray's cows, but 
 like the wonderful song, in which those animals have 
 part interest, going unerringly to the fountains of the 
 human heart I How would we double up our fists, how 
 red would we grow in the face when he told us, in the 
 most unadorned, dispassionate way, about the cruel cred- 
 itor who foreclosed a mortgage on him and turned him 
 and our grandmother into the street, just after the birth 
 of their first child, our father; and when he came to the 
 passage where the kind friend steps in and says, " here 
 are five hundred dollars, pay me when you are able," 
 how many girls there would be sobbing, and men vio- 
 lently blowing their noses I If we had belonged to 
 the period of the foreclosure and been next-door neigh- 
 bors to the mortgagor, the thing might have impressed 
 us simply as the spectacle of a young couple with a baby 
 who couldn't meet their quarterly payments, and were 
 obliged to curtail their style of living. The thing still 
 happens, and that is the way we look .at it. But when 
 grandpapa relates it, nothing in the domestic line we 
 ever saw upon the stage seems half so touching. The 
 littlest school-boy feels a roseate fascination hovering 
 around the dogs that went after squirrels with that ven- 
 erable man when he wore the roundabout of his far-off 
 period; there is glamour about the mere fact that then, 
 as now, there were dogs, and there were squirrels; and 
 as the grandchild hears of the boughs which hung so 
 full, the crisp leaves which crackled so frostily those
 
 The Proper use of Grandfathers. 75 
 
 many, many falls ago a strange delight comes over 
 him, and he seems to be going out chestnutting in the 
 morning of the world. 
 
 What we want of one, we want of all the grandfathers 
 of the race, their story. Their value is that they take 
 the experience of human life, and hold it a sufficient dis- 
 tance from us to be judged in its true proportions, 
 That experience in all ages is a solemn and a beautiful, 
 a perilous, yet a glorious thing. "We are too near the 
 picture to appreciate it, as it appears in our own day, 
 though all its grand motives are the same. We rub our 
 noses against the nobilities and cannot see them. The 
 foreground weed is more conspicuous than the back- 
 ground mountain. When the grandfathers carry it 
 from us, and hang it on the wall of that calm gallery 
 where no confusing cross-lights of selfish interest any 
 longer interfere, the shadows fall into their proper 
 places, the symbolisms of the piece are manifest, and 
 above all minor hillocks, above all clouds of storm, un- 
 conscious of its earthquake struggles and its glacier 
 scars, Human Kature stands an eternal tgiity, its peak 
 in a clear heaven full of stars. We recognize that unity 
 and all things become possible to us, for thereby even 
 the commonest living is glorified. 
 
 7*
 
 AT EVE.
 
 AT EVE. 
 
 T is almost time for John to come home, I 
 guess," and the young wife rose from her sewing 
 and put the tea-kettle over the bright fire on the 
 clean-swept hearth. Then she pulled the table 
 
 out into the middle of the floor, right to the spot 
 where she knew the setting sun would soon shine 
 through the latticed window ; for John loved to see the 
 light play upon the homely cups and. saucers, and pewter 
 spoons; he said it reminded him of the fairy stories, 
 where they ate oft" gold dishes. She went about her 
 work swiftly, but very quietly. Once there had been a 
 time when the little cottage rang early and late with the 
 sound of her glad voice. But then a pair of little feet 
 crept over the floor, and a tiny figure had raised itself up 
 by the very table whose cloth was now so smooth and 
 unruffled by the small awkward hands. 
 
 When Margery had put the golden butter, the jug of 
 cream, and the slice of sweet honey on the table, she 
 went to the door to look for John. A narrow path, 
 skirted on one side by waving corn-fields, on the other 
 by pastures and orchards, stretched from the cottage 
 
 (77)
 
 78 At Eve. 
 
 down to the broader road that led to the village. The 
 sun was already low in the sky, and threw across the 
 path the shadow of the old apple-tree that stood beside 
 the house. Margery remembered how full of pink and 
 white blossoms the tree had been that spring when she 
 first came here as John's bride, and how they showered 
 down like snow, while now a ripe apple occasionally 
 dropped from the branches with a heavy plump. 
 
 " Here comes John at last," she said in a low voice, as 
 she saw him approaching from the village. He was yet 
 a considerable distance off, but Margery's bright eyes 
 discerned that he was not alone. Beside him walked a 
 girl, whom Margery had known already while they were 
 both children. Mary was called handsome by the village 
 lads; but she was poor, and she and her father helped to 
 do field work, on the neighboring farms, in the busiest 
 seasons of the year. 
 
 As she and John advanced, Margery noticed that they 
 seemed engaged in earnest conversation. Then John 
 stood still and gave her his hand. The girl seized it 
 eagerly and put it to her lips, and looking up at him 
 once, turned around and walked back to the village, while 
 John hastened on with longer steps. 
 
 Margery's lips quivered. She did not wait for John at 
 the door, but turned back into the house, and was busied 
 at the hearth when he came in. 
 
 " Well, wify, how goes it this evening ? " he asked in 
 his cheery voice, which always reminded Margery of the 
 time when he used to add, " And how is my little pet
 
 At Eve. 79 
 
 darlint ? " and pick the baby up from the floor. The 
 tones of his voice had grown almost kinder and more 
 cheerful since, if that were possible, though he always 
 gazed around the room with a vague kind of look, as if 
 he half-expected to see the baby toddle up to him from 
 Borne corner. 
 
 " Thank you, John, all goes as well as usual. You are 
 late to-night." 
 
 " Yes, there was something to detain me," he said, as 
 he took down the tin-basin and filled it with water, to 
 wash his sunburnt face and hands. A shadow flitted 
 over Margery's face, but it was gone again when they 
 sat down to table. It was still light enough to see with- 
 out a candle, though the golden sunbeams John loved so 
 much had Aided long ago. He talked cheerily of the 
 crops, and of harvest-time, and of the excellent prospects 
 for the coming winter. There was no occasion for 
 Margery to say much, and she was glad of it. 
 
 Then she quickly cleared the table, and John sat down 
 by the hearth, lighted his pipe, and laid his evening 
 paper across Ms knee to be read afterwards by candle- 
 light. While Margery washed the dishes there was no 
 sound in the room but the clatter of the cups and spoons, 
 and the monotonous ticking of the old-fashioned clock in 
 the corner. Margery sometimes glanced over at John, 
 who sat smoking and looking into the fire. At last he 
 got up, lit the candle, and, going up to Margery, he asked, 
 " What's the matter, Margery V You are uncommonly 
 silent to-nurht."
 
 8o At Eve. 
 
 She stopped in her work, and hung the towel over her 
 arm. 
 
 " John," she said, looking straight at him, with a 
 strange light in her brown eyes, and her face rather pale, 
 " I want to go home." 
 
 An expression half of pain, half of astonishment, came 
 into John's honest face. He too was a shade paler, and 
 the candle trembled a little in his hand as he asked, 
 
 " Is the house too lonely again, Margery ? You did 
 say you wanted to go home for a spell, after, after but 
 I thought you had got contented again." 
 
 She had turned away from him as she answered, 
 
 u Yes, John, the house is lonely again. I see the little 
 hands on all the chairs, and hear the little feet crawling 
 over the floor; " but there was something of coldness in 
 her tone, very unlike the pleading voice in which she had 
 once before made the same request. 
 
 " Well, Margery," he went on, after a pause, going to 
 the table and putting the candle upon it, " if you think 
 it will ease your heart to go and see the old folks a little 
 while, I am willing you should." 
 
 He never spoke of the utter loneliness that fell upon 
 him at the thought of her going away, and how to him, 
 too, the dim room was full of the golden hair and the 
 blue eyes of his child. 
 
 She said nothing. 
 
 " When will you come back, Margery ? " he asked, 
 after another pause. 
 
 " I don't know, John."
 
 At Eve. 81 
 
 " When do you think of going ? " 
 
 " On Monday morning, if you can spare the horse to 
 take me over." 
 
 " I think I can, Margery; but I shall be sorry to lose 
 my little wify so soon," he could not help saying, as he 
 laid his rough hand on her hair, with so soft a touch that 
 the tears started to her eyes. 
 
 " I shall ask Mary to come here and keep house for 
 you, while I am away," she said. " Mary is used to our 
 ways, and can do for you very well." 
 
 " Mary ? " asked John, " I reckon she will be busy 
 enough at harvest-time. I need nobody when you are 
 gone. I can live single again," with a half smile; "but 
 just as you think, Margery." 
 
 Nothing more was said on the subject. Margery took 
 up her sewing, and John his paper. But he did not read 
 very attentively that evening, but often stopped and 
 looked long and intently at Margery, who kept her eyes 
 steadily on the busy needle that was flying to and fro in 
 her fingers. It was a Saturday, and John tired with a 
 week's hard labor. So the fire was raked for the night, 
 the old clock wound up, and the little kitchen soon dark 
 and silent. 
 
 Next morning Margery awoke bright and early. So 
 early indeed, that through the open window of the bed- 
 room she could see the pink clouds floating in the sky, 
 and felt the cool wind that always goes before the rising 
 of the sun. The swallows under the roof were just 
 waking up, and beginning to twitter half-dreamily. With
 
 82 At Eve. 
 
 her hands folded under her head, Margery lay musing 
 for a long while. Somehow her whole life passed before 
 her on this still, holy Sunday morning. She remem- 
 bered when she used to play barefoot in the little brook 
 or sit on warm summer afternoons on the straight-rowed 
 wooden benches of the village school. How the years 
 had sped by like a single day, and she was a grown young 
 girl. Then John came and courted her, and then . The 
 sun had come up, and played in bright lights over the ceil- 
 ing, while on the floor quivered the shadows of the rose- 
 leaves from outside before the window. The church- 
 bell in the village began to ring. Margery listened to 
 the sounds, as they came borne on the soft breeze, across 
 the waving corn-fields. She looked out at the blue sky 
 and thought of heaven, and the blessed angels singing and 
 rejoicing there. She thought of her child, and of John, 
 and of herself. A mingled feeling of joy and pain, of 
 calm and unrest, crept into her heart. She felt the tears 
 rising to her eyes again, but she would not let them. 
 She sprang up, dressed hastily, and went softly down- 
 stairs, while John slept heavily on. 
 
 As Margery entered the kitchen, the cat got up from 
 her rug, stretched her legs and yawned, and then came 
 forward to be petted. On the next Sunday, Mary would 
 probably be here to give pussy her milk, and stroke her 
 soft, glossy back. Margery threw open the door to let 
 in the beautiful fresh morning air. The dew lay spark- 
 ling on the grass and flowers. Down there on the road 
 was the spot where John and Mary had parted last
 
 At Eve. 83 
 
 night. Margery turned away and shut the door again. 
 Then she bestirred herself to get breakfast. 
 
 "When John came down to it, Margery thought his 
 step sounded heavier than she had ever heard it before. 
 
 " "Will you go to church this morning, Margery ? " he 
 asked, when the simple meal was over. 
 
 " No, John, I guess not." 
 
 " Well, Margery, I am going. I will come home as 
 soon as service is over; but I think it will do me good." 
 
 " John, will you promise me to " 
 
 " What, Margery ? " 
 
 " This afternoon, after I have got ready to go, will 
 you come once more with me to the the grave ? " 
 
 " Yes, Margery, yes." 
 
 She helped him on with his best coat, brought him the 
 prayer-book, and then watched him from the window as 
 he walked down the road with slow steps. 
 
 Margery wondered what could be the matter with her- 
 self that morning. She felt BO tired that her feet almost 
 refused to carry her. A hundred times in her simple 
 household duties, she paused to take breath, and sat down 
 to rest so often, that John came home from church and 
 to dinner, almost before it was ready. He praised the 
 cookery; but the dishes were taken almost untouched 
 off the table again, and when everything was cleared 
 away, Margery said, 
 
 " I must go upstairs now, John, to get ready. I want 
 to take some of my clothes with me." 
 
 He sat on the doorstep, holding his pipe, which had
 
 84 At Eve. 
 
 gone out, between his fingers, and only nodded his head, 
 and said nothing. Margery went up to the bedroom, 
 and began to open closets and drawers, and pack articles 
 of clothing into a small trunk. At last she unlocked the 
 great old bureau, and took out a pile of tiny dresses and 
 aprons, a tin cup, and a few bright marbles, and stowed 
 them carefully away in the trunk. A pair of small, worn- 
 out leather shoes, turned up at the toes, stood in the 
 drawer yet. Should she carry both these away, too ? 
 No, she thought, as she brushed away the tears that had 
 fallen upon it, one she had better leave John. She put it 
 resolutely back, locked the drawer, and laid the key on 
 the top of the bureau. Now there was nothing more to 
 be done. She looked around the room. Yes, that was 
 to be readied up a little, so that John might not miss her 
 too much for the first day or two. So she polished the 
 chairs and the bureau, and carefully dusted the mantle- 
 piece, with the red and white china dog and the kneeling 
 china angel that stood there. Then she herself was to 
 be dressed; she had almost forgotten that altogether. 
 She opened her trunk once more, and took out the dress 
 John loved best to see her in. 
 
 Several hours had slipped by while she was thus em- 
 ployed, and now the village-clock struck five. She hast- 
 ened down. John still sat on the doorstep where she 
 had left him. 
 
 " John, dear, I did not think it was so late. It is time 
 to go to the graveyard. Are you ready to come ? " 
 
 He looked up as if he had been dreaming, but rose 
 and said, " Yes, Margery."
 
 At Eve. 85 
 
 He shut the house-door, and they turned into a path to 
 the rear of the cottage. For some distance this road, 
 too, was skirted on both sides by fields of ripened corn. 
 John passed his hand thoughtlessly over the heavy ears, 
 and now and then pulled one up, and swung it round in 
 the air. Neither of them spoke, and for a long while 
 
 
 
 there was no other sound but the rustle of their steps. 
 
 The path at length turned aside and led to a high pla- 
 teau that overlooked the valley, in which deep shadows 
 were already beginning to fall. Blue mists crept over 
 the foot of the mountains, while their tops were yet lit 
 up by the sun. The smoke from the chimneys rose up 
 into the air, and the shouts of the village children, play- 
 ing on the meadow, faintly came up from below. There 
 under that great oak, the only tree for some distance 
 around, John had first asked Margery to be his wife. 
 Involuntarily the steps of both faltered as they drew 
 near the spot, but neither stopped. Margery glanced up 
 at John; she could not see his face, for his head was 
 turned, and he seemed to be attentively looking at some- 
 thing down in the valley. 
 
 Another turn in the road, and the small cemetery, 
 with the white stones that gleamed between the dark 
 cypress-trees, rose up before them. In silence they 
 found their way to the little grave. John seated himself, 
 without a word, on a mound opposite, Margery knelt 
 down and pulled some dried leaves off the rose-tree she 
 had planted, and bound the ivy further up on the white 
 marble cross. She felt that John watched her, but did 
 8*
 
 86 At Eve. 
 
 not look up at him. Though she tried hard to keep them 
 back, the tears would fill her eyes again and again, so 
 that she could hardly see to pluck up the few weeds that 
 had grown among the grass. When that was completed, 
 she covered her face with her hands and tried to pray. 
 She wanted to ask that John might be happy while she 
 was away, and that, but her head swam round, and 
 she found no words. She raised her eyes, and glanced 
 at John through her fingers. He sat with his back to- 
 ward her now, but she saw that his great, strong frame 
 trembled with half-suppressed sobs. 
 
 " O John ! " she cried, bursting into tears. She only 
 noticed yet that he suddenly turned around, and then 
 closed her eyes, as he clasped her in his arms. For a 
 time she heard nothing but the sound of her own low 
 weeping, and the throbbing of John's heart. Suddenly 
 she looked up, and said, 
 
 " O John, dear, dear John, please, please forgive me ! " 
 
 " Margery," he answered, in as firm a tone as he could 
 command, " don't talk so." 
 
 " Oh, but, John, I did not want to go away only 
 because the house was so lonely, but because, be- 
 cause," 
 
 " Because what, Margery ? " he asked, astonished. 
 
 " O John, because I I thought you loved Mary bet- 
 ter than me, because I saw you together so many times 
 in the last weeks ; and she kissed your hand last night." 
 
 John's clasp about Margery relaxed, and his arms 
 sank down by his side. His tears were dried now, and
 
 At Eve. 87 
 
 his earnest blue eyes fixed upon Margery with a dumb, 
 half-unconscious expression of surprise and pain. She 
 could not bear the look, and covered her face with her 
 hands again. 
 
 " No, Margery," he said, slowly, " I only saw Mary 
 because," 
 
 Margery raised her head. 
 
 " John, dear John, don't talk about it ! I don't be- 
 lieve it any more ! I know I was a bad, foolish wife ! 
 Only love me again, and forgive me, dear, dear John ! 
 Oh, I don't believe it any more I " and she took his right 
 hand and kissed it, as Mary had done. 
 
 " Wont you forgive me, John ? I will never, never go 
 away from you," she pleaded, while the tears streamed 
 down her face. 
 
 He took her in his arms once more, and kissed her 
 lips. 
 
 The red evening sunlight had crept away from the 
 little grave, and the dusk was fast gathering about it. 
 Margery bent down and kissed the wbite marble cross ; 
 then they turned their steps homeward, Margery hold- 
 ing John's hand like a child. 
 
 " I must unpack my clothes again to-night," she said, 
 after a while. " I have all the baby's little things in my 
 trunk, but, John, I was going to leave you one of the 
 little shoes." 
 
 She felt her hand clasped closer in his. 
 
 " Margery," he said then, " I think I had better tell 
 you about Mary."
 
 88 At Eve. 
 
 u John, dear John, didn't I tell you I don't believe 
 that any more," she answered, with another pleading 
 look. 
 
 " No Margery, it is not that, but I guess you might 
 help UK. You never knew that Mary's father is getting 
 very bad in the way of drinking. Since his house was 
 burnt down, and he lost his property, he has been going 
 on in that way. Mary takes it dreadful hard, and wont 
 let the news get about, if she can help it She thinks so 
 much of you, and she says you used to like her father so 
 well, that she wouldn't have you know for almost any 
 money. So I promised not to tell you. She has come 
 to me many and many a time, crying, and begging me 
 to help her. She works as hard as she can, but her father 
 takes all she gets ; so they are very poor. When you 
 saw us yesterday, I had given her money to pay their 
 rent. She wants to raise money enough to take him to 
 the Asylum, because there he may be cured. I prom- 
 ised her to get him some decent clothes." 
 
 " O John, I wttl sew them. Poor Mary I and you 
 needn't tell her who sewed them." 
 
 " That's right, Margery ! " 
 
 They had reached the house by this time, and John 
 opened the door. The kettle was singing over the 
 hearth, and the bright tin pans against the wall shone 
 in the firelight. On the doorstep Margery turned 
 around, and, throwing her arms around John's neck, 
 said softly, 
 
 " John, I am glad I am going to stay."
 
 At Eve. 89 
 
 When they had entered, John lit the candle, and while 
 Margery was getting supper, took up yesterday's un- 
 finished paper. He read very attentively this evening, 
 but suddenly stopped, and Margery saw the paper 
 tremble in his hand. Then he rose, gave it to her, and 
 said, in a husky voice, 
 
 " Head that, Margery." 
 
 Margery read. Then the paper dropped, and with a 
 fresh burst of tears she once more threw her arms about 
 John's neck. 
 
 In one corner of the paper that lay neglected on the 
 floor was the poem : 
 
 " As through the land at eve we went, 
 
 And plucked the ripened ears, 
 We fell out, my wife and I, 
 Oh, we fell out, I know not why, 
 And kissed again with tears. 
 
 " For when we came where lies the child 
 
 We lost in other years ; 
 There above the little grave, 
 Oh, there above the little grave, 
 
 We kissed again with tears."
 
 BROKEN IDOLS 
 
 (91)
 
 BROKEN IDOLS. 
 
 X)T long since, it was my misfortune to be 
 inveigled into attending one of the semi-peri- 
 odical " Exhibitions " of the Institute, a 
 
 seminary for young ladies. I say it was my 
 misfortune, because, to please my better half, 
 I abandoned the joys of my fireside, my book, and my 
 slippers, to stand for two hours by an open window, 
 with a cold draft blowing on my back; hearing, now and 
 then, a few words of the sentimental and ' : goody " plat- 
 itudes of which the young ladies' essays were composed, 
 the reading of which was interspersed with pyrotech- 
 nic performances on the piano-forte, which the pro- 
 gramme was kind enough to inform me were " The 
 Soldiers' Chorus from Faust," " Duette from N"orma," 
 etc. I was fortunate in having a programme to en- 
 lighten me. 
 
 
 
 There was nothing remarkable about the "Exhibi- 
 tion," except that, in the dozen essays which were read, 
 all the verses of Longfellow's " Psalm of Life " were 
 quoted, and that through them all there ran a dismal 
 monotone of morbid sentiment. One young lady, who 
 9 (93)
 
 94 Broken Idols. 
 
 had a beautiful healthy bloom on her checks and wore 
 quite a quantity of comfortable and elegant clothing, 
 uttered a very touching wail over her buried hopes, 
 her vanished joys, and the mockery of this hollow- 
 hearted world. She stated that all that's brightest 
 must fade, that " this world is all a fleeting show, for 
 man's illusion given," that "our hearts, though stout 
 and brave, still, like muffled drums, are beating funeral 
 marches to the grave ; " and much more of the same sort. 
 She was impressed with the fact that Time is an icono- 
 clast, which last word seemed to strike her as one of 
 the finest in the dictionary. 
 
 This is very true. Time does smash our idols contin- 
 ually; but should we lament and sing dirges and make 
 ourselves generally uncomfortable on that account ? 
 Because the geese that we thought swans have turned 
 out to be only geese after all, should we go into mourn- 
 ing for our " buried hopes," and " vanished joys " ? 
 That we outgrow our youthful fancies is no more a 
 cause for sentimental regret than that we outgrow our 
 youthful jackets. For myself, I can look upon the 
 ashes of my early loves, and their name was legion, 
 with as few tears as I bestow upon the ragged rem- 
 nants of my early trousers. 
 
 A number of years ago my young heart's fresh af- 
 fectipns were lavished upon the bright-eyed girl whose 
 father kept a little candy-shop and bakery across the 
 way, and who with her own fair hands often gave me 
 Btriped sticks of stomach-ache for my pennies, and
 
 Broken Idols. 95 
 
 sometimes, when I was penniless, sweetened my lot with 
 a few peppermint drops, telling me to pay for them when 
 I came into my fortune. Many a time have I stood by 
 the lighted window of the little shop, heedless of the 
 bell that summoned me to my nightly bread and milk, 
 watching her trip about among the jars of candy and 
 barrels of nuts, tying up parcels and making change 
 with a grace that seemed unsurpassable. But there was 
 a red-haired, scorbutic youth who drove the baker'a 
 bread-cart, and also drove me to distraction. He was 
 always flinging my youth into my face and asking if 
 my mother was aware of my whereabouts. At last a 
 grave suspicion forced itself upon my mind that Lizzie 
 looked upon him with favor and made light of my ju- 
 venile demonstrations. Time proved that my suspicion 
 was well founded ; for one day a carriage stopped in 
 front of the little shop, out of which sprang the scor- 
 butic young man, clad in unusually fine raiment, includ- 
 ing a gorgeous yellow vest and immaculate white gloves, 
 lie was followed by a solemn-looking person, who wore 
 a very black coat and a very white choker. They 
 passed through the shop and went up the back stairs. 
 At'tur a while they returned, and with them Lizzie, all 
 smiles and blushes and ribbons and a bewitching pink 
 bonnet. The carriage was driven away and my idol 
 was smashed. 
 
 Straightway I builded me another, which was in turn 
 broken, and followed by another and another. Some- 
 times it was the dashing highwayman, whose life and
 
 96 Broken Idols. 
 
 brilliant exploits I furtively made myself acquainted 
 with, out in the wood-house, and whose picture, in pro- 
 fuse curls, enormous jack-boots, and immense expanse 
 of coat- flap, graced the yellow covers of the Claude 
 Duval series of novels. Anon it was the great Na- 
 poleon seated so proudly, in cheap lithograph, 
 upon the extreme hind-quarters of his fiery charger, and 
 pointing with aspiring hand toward the snowy Alps, 
 that I set up and worshipped. 
 
 Nor was I free from relapses of the tender passion. 
 About the time that my first love, Lizzie, was putting 
 the third of her red-haired progeny into pantaloons, and 
 torturing his fiery elf-locks into an unsightly " roach, 1 ' 
 and when I was a freshman in college, I became con- 
 vinced that the light of my life shone from a certain 
 window in Miss Peesley's boarding-school; for behind 
 that window a comely maiden, with golden hair and eyes 
 of heavenly blue, slept and studied and ate sweetmeats 
 and read Moore's melodies. My heart was hers entire- 
 ly, as was also my spare coin, for we had specie in 
 those days, which I converted into valentines and 
 assorted candies and " The Language of Flowers," for 
 her especial use and behoof. I worshipped her at church, 
 as she sat, with a bevy of other girls, aloft in the gallery, 
 the entrance to which was guarded by the ancient and 
 incorruptible damsel who taught algebra in Miss Pees- 
 ley's academy, and who also marshalled the young ladies 
 to and from church, keeping them under her eye, and 
 putting to rout any audacious youth who endeavored to
 
 Broken Idols. 97 
 
 walk with one of them. It was for her that I bought a 
 flute, and with much difficulty so far mastered it as to 
 play " Sweet Home " and " What fairy-like music," 
 in performing which, standing in the snow under her 
 window at midnight's witching hour, I caught a terrible 
 cold, besides being threatened with arrest by a low-bred 
 policeman for making an unseemly noise in the night- 
 time, as if I were a calliope. It was to bow to her 
 that I neglected to split and carry in my Saturday's 
 wood, and stood on the street-corner all the afternoon, 
 for which I was soundly rated at night by my venerable 
 father, who also improved the occasion by repeating his 
 regular lecture upon my inattentions to study and 
 general neglect of duty. 
 
 So great was my infatuation that I manifested an un- 
 heard-of anxiety about the details of my dress. I even 
 went so far as to attend the Friday evening " Kecep- 
 tions " at the academy, where Miss Peesley graciously 
 gave the young gentlemen an opportunity to see and 
 converse with the young ladies, under her own supervis- 
 ion. It was a dismal business, sitting bolt upright in 
 a straight-backed, hair-cushioned chair, under the gaze of 
 Miss P. and her staff, smiling foolislily at some dreary, 
 pointless sally of Miss Van Tuyl's, who taught rhetoric 
 and was remarkably sprightly for one of her years, 
 crossing and uncrossing my legs uneasily, and endeavor- 
 ing to persuade myself that I was " enjoying the even- 
 ing." Nevertheless, I made desperate attempts to be 
 happy even under these adverse circumstances. 
 9*
 
 98 Broken Idols. 
 
 And what was my reward ? 
 
 There came to college a young man who was reputed 
 to be a poet. He wore his hair long and parted in the 
 middle, was addicted to broad Byronic collars, could take 
 very pretty and pensive attitudes, and was an adept in 
 the art of leaning his head abstractedly upon his hand. 
 He at once became that terrible thing among the ladies, a 
 lion. And he was a very impudent lion. Regardless of 
 my claims and feelings, he sent to her, whom I had fondly 
 called mine own, an acrostic valentine of his own com- 
 position, taking care that she should know from whom 
 it came. The result was that I was as we Western 
 people would term it " flopped I " 
 
 And so another idol was smashed. 
 
 Then came a reaction. I scorned the sex and sought 
 balm for my wounded feelings in the worst pages of 
 Byron. 
 
 Having by this time attained the sophomoric dignity, 
 I discovered that the end and ami of existence was to 
 be/osi, that the divine significance of life consisted in 
 drinking villanous whiskey " on the sly," and proclaim- 
 ing the fact by eating cardamom seeds; in stealing gates 
 and the clapper of the chapel bell; in devouring half- 
 cooked chickens, purloined from professional coops; in 
 hazing freshmen; in playing euchre for "ten cents a 
 corner; " and in parading the streets at midnight, sing- 
 ing " Landlord, fill the flowing bowl," and vociferously 
 urging some one to " rip and slap and set 'em up ag'in, 
 all on a summer's day." I smoked vile Scarfalatti to-
 
 Broken Idols. 99 
 
 bacco in a huge Dutch pipe, wore a blue coat with brass 
 buttons, a shocking hat, and my trousers tucked into my 
 boots, which after my great disappointment befell me 
 I ceased to black with any degree of regularity, and 
 regulated my language according to a certain slangy 
 work called " Yale College Scrapes." 
 
 I am inclined to look upon these youthful pranks not 
 as unpardonable sins, though I freely admit their utter 
 folly, but as the vagaries of immature genius, if I may 
 say so, scorning to walk decorously, because other 
 people do, struggling to throw off the fetters of conven- 
 tionality, burning to distinguish itself in some new and 
 original way, striking out from the beaten paths, to 
 repent of it afterward. For it does not take many years 
 lo teach one that the beaten paths are the safest; and I 
 have often wished that I had had a tithe of the appli- 
 cation and assiduity of "Old Sobriety," as we rapid 
 youngsters called the Nestor of the class, who plodded 
 on from morn till dewy eve and far into the night, 
 and quietly carried off the honors from the brilliant 
 geniuses, who wore flash neckties and shone at free- 
 and-easys. But what thoughtless college-boy does not 
 prefer worshipping at the shrine of the fast goddess 
 to treading the straight and safe paths of proprie- 
 ty ? It takes time and one or two private interviews 
 with a committee of the Faculty to rid him of his de- 
 lusion. 
 
 I have been making these confessions to show that I, 
 too, as well as the handsome and healthy young lady
 
 loo Broken Idols. 
 
 whose essay furnishes iny text, have had some joys that 
 are vanished and some hopes that are buried. 
 
 But I do not therefore find that this world is a dark 
 and dreary desert. I do not rail at life as a hollow 
 mockery, nor long to lay my weary head upon the lap 
 of earth. On the contrary, the longer I live in this 
 world, the better I like it. It is a jolly old world, after 
 all; and, though Time is an iconoclast and does smash 
 our idols with a ruthless hand, it is only to purify our 
 vision; and, as the fragments tumble and the dust set- 
 tles, we see the true, the beautiful, and the joyous in 
 life more clearly. I know that life has its disappoint- 
 ments and crosses ; but I think that it is too short for 
 sentimental lamentation over them. In homely phrase, 
 " There is no use in crying over spilt milk." If Dame 
 Fortune frowns, laugh her in the face, and, with a light 
 heart and brave spirit, woo her again, and you will 
 surely win her smile. I am as fully impressed as any 
 one with the fact that this world is not our permanent 
 abiding-place; but that is no reason why we should 
 underrate, abuse, and malign it. There is such a thing 
 as being too other-worldly. The grand truths and 
 beautiful teachings of God's gospel do not conflict with 
 the grandeur, the beauty, and the mystery of God's 
 handiwork, the world; and we can no more afford to 
 despise and dispense with the one than with the other. 
 And it seems to me that we cannot better prepare for 
 enjoying the life hereafter than by a healthy, hearty, 
 rational enjoyment of the one that is here.
 
 Broken Idols. 101 
 
 Do not, then, O youth, sit down and grow sentimental 
 over your fancied griefs* Do not waste your time in 
 shedding weak tears over the fragments of your broken 
 idols. Kick the rubbish aside, and go on your way, 
 with head erect and heart open to the sweet influences 
 of this bright and beautiful world, and you cannot fail 
 to find it not a " Piljin's Projiss of a Wale," but 
 
 "A sunshiny world, full of laughter and leisure." 
 
 In worthy action and healthy enjoyment you will find 
 a cure for all your imaginary woes and all your maud- 
 lin fine feelings. 
 
 In two little lines lies the clue to an honorable and 
 happy life: 
 
 " Thou shalt find, by hearty striving only 
 And truly loving, thou canst truly live."
 
 DR. HUGER'S INTENTION. 
 
 (103)
 
 DR. HUGER'S INTENTION. 
 
 K. HUGEK was thirty years old when he delib- 
 erately resolved to be in love, I cannot say 
 " fall in love " of anything so matter-of-fact and 
 well-considered. He made up his mind that 
 marriage was a good thing, that he was old enough 
 to marry, finally, that he would marry. Then he 
 decided, with equal deliberation, on the qualifications 
 necessary in the lady, and began to look about him to 
 find her. She must be a blonde. Above all things else, 
 he must have her gentle and trustful; and he believed 
 that gentleness and trustfulness inhered in the blue- 
 eyed, fair-haired type of womanhood. She must be ap- 
 preciative, but not strong-minded, well-bred, with a 
 certain lady-like perfectness, which could not be criti- 
 cised, and yet which would always save her from being 
 conspicuous. Not for the world would he have any 
 new-fangled woman's-rights notions about her. 
 
 You might fancy it would be a somewhat difficult 
 
 matter for him to find precisely the realization of this 
 
 ideal; but here fate befriended him, fate, who seemed 
 
 to have taken Dr. Huger under her especial charge, and 
 
 10 (105)
 
 io6 Dr. Huger's Intention. 
 
 had been very kind to him all his life. He looked out 
 of his window, after he had come to the resolution here- 
 tofore recorded, and saw Amy Minturn tripping across 
 the village green. 
 
 Amy was eighteen, blonde, blue-eyed, innocent, 
 well-bred, unpresuming, without ambition, and without 
 originality. She was very lovely in her own quiet, tea- 
 rose style. Her position was satisfactory; for her father, 
 Judge Minturn, was a man of mark in Windham, and 
 one of Dr. Huger's warmest friends. So, having decided 
 that here was on embodiment of all his " must-haves," 
 the doctor went over that evening to call at the Minturn 
 mansion. Not that the call in itself was an unusual oc- 
 currence. He went there often; but hitherto his con- 
 versation had been principally directed to the judge, 
 and to-night there was a noticeable change. 
 
 Amy was looking her loveliest, in her diaphanous 
 muslin robes, with blue ribbons at her throat, and in 
 her soft light hair. Dr. Huger wondered that he had 
 never before noticed the pearly tints of her complexion, 
 the deep lustrous blue of her eyes, the dainty, flower-like 
 grace of her words and ways. He talked to her, and 
 watched the changing color in her cheeks, and her rip- 
 pling smiles, until he began to think the falling in love, 
 to which he had so deliberately addressed himself, the 
 easiest and pleasantest thing in the world. She had the 
 prettiest little air of propriety, half prudish, and half 
 coquettish. She received his attentions with a shy grace 
 that was irresistibly tempting.
 
 Dr. Huger's Intention. 107 
 
 He went often to Judge Minturn's after that not too 
 often, for he did not wish to startle his pretty Amy by 
 attentions too sudden or too overpowering; and, indeed, 
 there was nothing in the gentle attraction by which she 
 drew him to hurry him into any insane forgetfulness of 
 his customary moderation. But he liked and approved 
 her more and more. He made up his mind to give her 
 a little longer time in which to become familiar with 
 him, and then to ask her to be his wife. 
 
 When he had reached this determination, he was sent 
 for, one August day, to see a new patient, a certain 
 Miss Colchester. He was thinking about Amy as he 
 went along, laughing at the foolish old notion con- 
 cerning the course of true love; for what could run any 
 smoother, he asked himself, than his had ? It seemed 
 to him as simple and pretty as an idyl, the "^Miller's 
 Daughter " New Englandized. 
 
 " Ob, that I were beside her now ! 
 Oh, will she answer if I call ? 
 Oh, would she give me vow for vow, 
 Sweet Amy, if I told her all ? " 
 
 he hummed, half unconsciously, as he walked on. 
 
 Soon he came in sight of Hock Cottage, the place to 
 which he was going, and began thereupon to speculate 
 about Miss Colchester. Of course she was one of the 
 summer boarders of whom Rock Cottage was full. He 
 wondered whether she were young or old, whether he 
 should like her, whether she would be good pay; and
 
 io8 Dr. Plugcr's Intention. 
 
 by this time, he had rung the bell, and was inquiring for 
 her of the tidy girl who answered his summons. 
 
 He was shown into a little parlor on the first floor, 
 and, pausing a moment at the door, he looked at his pa- 
 tient. A very beautiful woman, he said to himself, but 
 just such an one as he did not like. She sat in a low 
 chair, her back to the window and her face turned to- 
 ward him. She wore a simple white-cambric wrapper. 
 Her beauty had no external adornment whatever. It 
 shone upon him startlingly and unexpectedly, as if you 
 should open a closet, where you were prepared to find 
 an old family portrait of some stiff Puritan grand- 
 mother, and be confronted, instead, by one of Murillo's 
 Spanish women, passionate and splendid. For Miss 
 Colchester was not unlike those Murillo-painted beau- 
 ties. She had a clear, dark skin, through which the 
 changeful color glowed as if her cheeks were transpar- 
 ent; dark, heavily- falling hair; low brow; great, pas- 
 sionate, slumbrous eyes ; proud, straight features. There 
 was nothing like a New-England woman about her. 
 That was Dr. Huger's first thought; and she read it, 
 either through some subtle clairvoyant power, or, a 
 simpler solution, because she knew that every one, who 
 saw her under these cool skies of the temperate zone, 
 would naturally think that thought first. Her full, 
 ripe lips parted in a singular smile, as she said, 
 
 " You are thinking that I am not of the North. You 
 are right. I was born in New Orleans. I am a Creole 
 of the Creoles, I don't like the people here. I sent for 
 you because you were German, at least by descent."
 
 Dr. Huger*s Intention. 109 
 
 " How did you know it ? " 
 
 It was an abrupt question for a man of the doctor's 
 habitual grave courtesy; but she seemed to him unique, 
 and it was impossible to maintain his old equipoise in 
 her presence. She had read his thought like a witch. 
 Was there something uncanny about her ? 
 
 " How did I know you were German ? " She smiled. 
 "Because your name suggested the idea, and then I 
 saw you in the street, and your features indorsed the 
 hint your name had given me." 
 
 "I am glad that anything should have made you think 
 of me." 
 
 It was one of the conventional platitudes, of which 
 self-complacent men, like Dr. Huger, keep a stock on 
 hand for their lady friends. Miss Colchester saw its 
 poverty, and smiled at it, as she answered him, 
 
 "I think of every one with whom I come in contact; 
 and I thought of you, especially, because I intended 
 from the first, if there were a good physician here, to 
 consult him." 
 
 The doctor looked into her radiant face. 
 
 " Is it possible that you are ill ? " 
 
 He had sat down beside her by this time, and taken 
 her hand. It gave him a curious sensation as it lay 
 quietly in his. He felt as if there were more life, more 
 magnetism, in it than in any hand he had ever touched. 
 
 "That you must tell me," she said, quietly. "My 
 heart feels strangely, sometimes; it beats too rapidly, 
 I think, and sometimes very irregularly. I have lived 
 10*
 
 no Dr. Hugcr's Intention. 
 
 too fast, suffered and enjoyed too keenly. The poor 
 machine is worn out, perhaps. I look to you to inform 
 me whether I am in danger." 
 
 " I must have my stethoscope. I will go for it. Are 
 you sure you can bear the truth ? " 
 
 She smiled, a cool smile touched with scorn. 
 
 "I have not found life so sweet," she said, "that its 
 loss will trouble me. I only want to know how long 
 I am likely to have in which to do certain things. If 
 you can tell me, I shall be satisfied." 
 
 As Dr. Huger went home, he met Amy. Something 
 in the sight of her fresh, blonde beauty, with its fulness 
 of life and health, jarred on his mood. He bowed to 
 her with a preoccupied air, and hurried on. When he 
 went back to Hock Cottage, Miss Colchester was sitting 
 just as he had left her. To sit long at a time in one 
 motionless attitude was a peculiarity of hers. Her 
 manner had always a singular composure, though her 
 nature was impetuous. 
 
 He placed over her heart the instrument he had 
 brought, then listened a long time to its beating. He 
 dreaded to tell her the story it revealed to him, and at 
 last made up his mind to evade the responsibility. 
 When he had come to this conclusion, he raised his 
 head. 
 
 " I do not feel willing," he said, " to pronounce an 
 opinion. Let me send for a medical man who is older, 
 who has had more experience." 
 
 She raised her dark eyes, and looked full in his face.
 
 Dr. Hugcr's Intention. in 
 
 " You are afraid to tell me, after all I said ? Will 
 you not believe that I do not care to live ? I shall send 
 for no other physician. I look for the truth from your 
 lips. You find my heart greatly enlarged ? " 
 
 " I told you I did not like to trust my own judgment; 
 but that ts my opinion." 
 
 "And if you are right I shall be likely to live how 
 long?" 
 
 " Possibly for years. Probably for a few months. 
 There is no help, I mean, no cure. If you suffer 
 much pain, that can be eased, perhaps." 
 
 Miss Colchester was silent a few moments. Dr. Hu- 
 ger could see no change in her face, though he watched 
 her closely. The color neither left her cheeks or deep- 
 ened in them. He did not see so much as an eyelash 
 quiver. At last she spoke, 
 
 " You have been truly kind, and I thank you. I be- 
 lieve I am glad of your tidings. I think I shall stay 
 here in Windham till the last. I would like one autumn 
 among these grand old woods and hills. I have nothing 
 to call me away. I can do all which I have to do by let- 
 ter, and my most faithful friend on earth is my quadroon 
 maid who is here with me. She will be my nurse, if I 
 need nursing. And you will be my physician, will 
 you not ? " 
 
 " I will when I can help you. At other times, may 1 
 not be your friend, and as such come to see you as often 
 as I can ? " 
 
 " Just as often, the oftener the better," she an-
 
 112 Dr. Huger's Intention. 
 
 swered, with that smile which thrilled him so strange- 
 ly every time he met it. " I shall always be glad to see 
 you. Your visits will be a real chanty; for, except 
 Lisette, I am quite solitary." 
 
 He understood by her manner that it was time to go, 
 and took his leave. 
 
 That night he walked over to Judge Minturn's. Amy 
 was just as pretty as ever, just as graceful and gentle 
 and faultless in dress and manner. Why was it that he 
 could not interest himself in her as heretofore ? Had 
 the salt lost its savor ? His judgment endorsed her as 
 it always had. She was precisely the kind of woman to 
 make a man happy. That pure blonde beauty, with its 
 tints of pearl and pink, was just what he wanted, always 
 had wanted. Why was it that he was haunted all the 
 time by eyes so different from those calm blue orbs of 
 Amy's ? He thought it was because his new patient's 
 case had interested him so much in a medical point of 
 view. He was tired, and he made it an excuse for short- 
 ening his call. 
 
 He went home to sit and smoke and speculate again 
 about Miss Colchester. He seemed to see her wonderful 
 exotic face through the blue smoke-wreaths. Her words 
 and ways came back to him. He had discovered so soon 
 that she was no gentle, yielding creature. She had 
 power enough to make her conspicuous anywhere 
 piquant moods and manners of her own, which a man 
 could find it hard to tame. He was glad, or thought 
 he was, that such office had not fallen to his share,
 
 Dr. Hugcr's Intention. 113 
 
 that the woman he had resolved to marry was so 
 unlike her; yet he could not banish the imperious face 
 which haunted his fancy. 
 
 The next day found him again at Rock Cottage; but 
 he waited until afternoon, when all his other visits had 
 been made. It was a warm day ; and Miss Colchester 
 was again in white, but in full fleecy robes, whose ef- 
 fect was very different from the simple cambric wrap 
 per she had worn the day before. Ornaments of 
 barbaric gold were in her ears, at her throat, and 
 manacled her wrists. A single scarlet lily drooped 
 low in her hair. She looked full of life, strong, 
 passionate, magnetic life. Was it possible that he had 
 judged her case aright ? Could death come to spoil this 
 wonderful beauty in its prime ? 
 
 Their talk was not like that of physician and patient. 
 It touched on many themes, and she illuminated each one 
 with the quick brilliancy of her thought. He grew ac- 
 quainted with her mind in the two hours he spent with 
 her; but her history, who she was, whence she came, 
 
 why she was at Windham, remained as mysterious 
 as before. Her maid canie in once or twice, and called 
 her " Miss Pauline," and this one item of her first name 
 was all that he knew about her more than he had discov- 
 ered yesterday. He saw her, a woman utterly differ- 
 ent from the gentle, communicative, impressible, blue- 
 eyed ideal he had always cherished, a woman with 
 whom, had she been in her full health, his reason would 
 have pronounced it madness to fall in love. How much
 
 114 Dr. Hugers Intention. 
 
 more would it be madness now, when he knew that she 
 was going straight to her doom, that when the summer 
 came again, it would shine upon her grave ! And yet it 
 seemed as if the very hopelessness of any passion for her 
 made her power over him more fatal. 
 
 lie went to see her day after day. He did not con- 
 sciously neglect Amy Minturn, because he did not think 
 about her at all. She was no more to him in those days 
 than last year's roses, which had smelled so sweet to him 
 in their prime. He was absorbed in Pauline Colchester 
 lived in her life. She accepted his devotion, simply 
 because she did not understand it. If she had been in 
 health, she would have known that this man loved her; 
 but the knowledge of her coming fate must make all that 
 impossible, she thought. So she accepted his friendship 
 with a feeling of entire security; and, though she revealed 
 to him no facts of her material life, admitted him to such 
 close intimacy with her heart and soul as, under other 
 circumstances, he might never have reached in a lifetime 
 of acquaintance. 
 
 And the nearer he drew to her the more insanely he 
 loved her, loved her, though he knew the fate which 
 waited for her, the heart-break he was preparing for him- 
 self. 
 
 At last he told her. He had meant to keep his secret 
 until she died, but in spite of himself it came to his lips. 
 
 In September it was, one of those glorious autumn 
 days when the year seems at flood-tide, full of a ripe 
 glory, which thrills an imaginative temperament as does
 
 Dr. linger s Intention. 115 
 
 no tender verdure of spring, no bravery of summer. 
 Pauline Colchester, sensitive to all such influences as 
 few are, was electrified by it. Dr. Huger had never 
 seen her so radiant, so full of vitality. It seemed to him 
 impossible that she should die. If he had her for his 
 own, if he could make her happ} r , could he not 
 guard her from every shock or excitement, and keep 
 her in such a charmed atmosphere of peace that the 
 worn-out heart might last for many a year ? 
 
 It was the idlest of lover's dreams, the emptiest and 
 most baseless of hopes, which he would have called any 
 other man insane for cherishing. But he grasped at it 
 eagerly, and, before he knew what he was doing, he had 
 breathed out his longing at the feet of Miss Colchester. 
 
 " Is it possible," she said, after a silent space, " that 
 you could have loved me so well ? That you would 
 have absorbed into your own the poor remnant of my 
 life, and cherished it to the end ? I ought to be sorry 
 for your sake; but how can I, when just such a love ia 
 what I have starved for all my life ? I have no right to 
 it now. I am Mrs., not Miss, Col<Ppster. I was Pauline 
 Angereau beforeRalph Colchester' found me and married 
 me. I had money and, I suppose, beauty; perhaps he 
 coveted them both. He made me believe that he loved 
 me with all his heart; and then, when I was once his 
 wife, he began torturing me to death with his neglec f , 
 and his cruelty. He was a bad man; and I don't believe 
 there is a woman on earth strong enough to have saved 
 him from himself. I bore everything, for two years, in
 
 n6 Dr. Huger' s Intention. 
 
 silence. Then I found that it was killing me, and, in one 
 of his frequent absences, I came away to die in peace. 
 When it is all over, Lisette will write to him. He will 
 have the fortune he longed for, without the encumbrance 
 of which he tired so soon. You must not see me any 
 more. Bound as I am, feeling what you feel, there 
 would be sin in our meeting. And yet I shall die easier 
 for knowing that, once in my life, I have been loved for 
 myself alone." 
 
 Then Dr. Huger rose to go. To-morrow, perhaps he 
 could combat those scruples of hers; but to-day, there 
 was no more to be said to this woman whom another man 
 owned. To-morrow, he could tell better how nearly he 
 could return to the quiet ways of friendship, whether 
 it would be possible for him to tend her, brother-like, to 
 the last, as he had meant to do before he loved her. He 
 took her hand a moment, and said, in a tone which he 
 tried so hard to make quiet that it almost sounded 
 cold, 
 
 u I must go now. I dare not stay and talk to you. I 
 will come again to-morrow." 
 
 " Yes, to-morrow." 
 
 Her face kindled, as she spoke, with a strange light 
 as of prophecy. What " to-morrow " meant to her he 
 did not know. He turned away suddenly, for his heart 
 was sore; and, as he went, he heard her say, speaking 
 very low and tenderly, 
 
 " God bless you, Francis Huger." 
 
 The next day he went again to Hock Cottage. He
 
 Dr. auger's Intention. 117 
 
 had fought his battle and conquered. He thought now 
 that he could stay by her to the end, and speak no word, 
 look no look, which should wrong her honor or his own. 
 He asked for her at the door as usual; and they told 
 him she had paid her bill that morning, and left. She 
 had come, they said, no one knew from whence; and no 
 one knew where she had gone. She had left no messages 
 and given no address. 
 
 Dr. Huger understood that this was something she 
 had meant to keep secret from him of all others. Was 
 he never to see her again ? When she had said, " Yes, to- 
 morrow," could she have meant the long to-morrow, 
 when the night of death should be over ? He turned 
 away, making no sign of disappointment, his sorrow 
 dumb in his heart; and, as he went, her voice seemed 
 again to follow him, 
 
 " God bless you, Francis Huger." 
 
 For two months afterward, he went the round of his 
 daily duties in a strange, absent, divided fashion. He 
 neither forgot nor omitted anything; yet he saw as one 
 who saw not, and heard with a hearing which conveyed 
 to his inward sense no impression. She was With him 
 everywhere. All the time, he was living over the brief 
 four weeks of their acquaintance, in which, it seemed to 
 him, he had suffered and enjoyed more than in all the 
 rest of his lifetime. Every day, every hour, he expected 
 some message from her. He felt a sort of conviction 
 that she would not die until he had seen her again. He 
 thought, at last, that his summons to her side had come. 
 11
 
 n8 Dr. Huger^s Intention. 
 
 He opened, one day, a letter directed in a hand with 
 which he was not familiar. He read in it, with hurry- 
 ing pulses, only these words : 
 
 " Madame Pauline Angereau Colchester is dead. I 
 obey her wish in sending you these tidings. 
 
 " LISETTE." 
 
 From the letter had dropped, as he unfolded it, a long 
 silky tress of dark hair. He picked it up, and it seemed 
 to cling caressingly to his fingers. It was all he could 
 ever have in this world of Pauline Colchester. Her " to- 
 morrow " had come. His would come, too, by-and-by. 
 "What then ? God alone knew whether his soul would 
 ever find hers, when both should be immortal. 
 
 Will he go back again some day to Amy Minturn ? 
 Who can tell ? Men have done such things. It will 
 depend on how weary the solitary way shall seem, 
 how much he may long for his own fireside. At any 
 rate, he will never tell her the story of Pauline.
 
 THE MAN WHOSE LIFE WAS SAVED. 
 
 (119)
 
 THE MAN WHOSE LIFE WAS SAVED. 
 
 a pleasant, sunshiny afternoon of early sum- 
 mer, Mile. Lisa sat knitting in the door-way of 
 a white, shining house, fronting on a silent, re- 
 mote street of a garrisoned town of France, not 
 far distant from Paris. The street was nar- 
 row and badly paved with sharp, irregular stones, slop- 
 ing gradually down to a point in the centre, which formed 
 the gutter, and at night was feebly lighted by an il- 
 lamp suspended to a rope and stretched across the street 
 at the corners. The general aspect of the place was not 
 amusing, for the habitations were few and the passers- 
 by fewer. Long rows of high, white-washed walls, the 
 boundaries of gentlemen's gardens, garnished with 
 broken glass and pots of cactus, gave a certain monoto- 
 ny to the Rue Arc en Ciel. The very blossoms of the 
 fruit-trees and flowering-shrubs behind the white- washed 
 walls, looked sleepily over their barriers, as they dif- 
 fused the contagious languor of their odors along the 
 silent white street. These drowsy influences, however, 
 seemed in no ways to diminish the carolling propensi- 
 11* (121)
 
 122 The Man whose Life -was Saved. 
 
 ties of Mile. Lisa, or to abate in any particular the ardor 
 of her knitting. 
 
 Lisa Ledru was the daughter of the proprietaire of 
 No. 29, a worthy woman who had toiled to sustain her- 
 self and an agreeable, sprightly husband, addicted to no 
 vice save that of contented idleness, through many long, 
 weary years, and had brought up her only child, Lisa, to 
 a point of prettiness and usefulness, which compensated 
 for past sacrifices, and promised well for the future. 
 
 Madame Ledru's house had been for years the abode 
 of militaires. She would occasionally condescend to the 
 admission of a bourgeois, but this infringement of hab- 
 it and inclination was but a condescension after all, and 
 left her with a certain sense of degradation, when she 
 exposed her staircase, which had creaked so long under 
 the thundering tread of martial heel and spur, to the 
 mild, apologetic footstep of a man of peace. Mme. Le- 
 dru's principles were well-known and properly appre- 
 ciated by the regiments in garrison, and her hoxtse never 
 lacked inmates. Her reputation for discretion and 
 adroitness, in bringing order out of the chaotic love af- 
 fairs which perpetually entangled the impetuous sons of 
 Mars, was established on the firmest basis. !N"o lodger 
 was ever " at home " to an importunate creditor, so long 
 as madame's ample person could bar the passage to 
 their entrance, and no tete-a-tete of a tender nature was 
 ever interrupted by the untimely appearance of a cher- 
 ished mother or aunt, or, still worse, the jealous intrusion 
 of a rival queen.
 
 The Man whose Life was Saved. 123 
 
 The court-yard of Mme. Ledru's house presented a 
 far more lively appearance than the street in which it 
 stood. In the centre of the court stood a large, um- 
 brageous tree, drooping over a stone watering-trough, 
 which gave drink to the numerous horses in the stable- 
 yard as well as to the chickens and barn-yard fowls, 
 who cackled and prowled about in its vicinity, as they 
 picked up their precarious living. At times their forag- 
 ing-ground would be enriched by a shower of crumbs 
 from a friendly window above, and rumor asserted that 
 the gallant Colonel Victor de Villeport, hero of many 
 campaigns, with the prestige of a wound or two, and a 
 compensating glitter of decorations, had so far aban- 
 doned himself to the pastime of chicken-feeding as to 
 invent new methods of beguiling the monotony of the 
 entertainment, such as tying morsels of bread to a 
 string and dancing it distractedly before the eyes of 
 stupid clucking hens, until experience had taught 
 them in a measure how to cope with this unexpected 
 phase of their trying existence. The stable-yard, ex- 
 tending to the left of the court, was gay with the bright 
 military caps of orderlies, who sang snatches of vaude- 
 ville airs, as they rubbed down their masters' steeds, 
 and polished up their sabres and buckles. 
 
 But to return to Mile. Lisa, who sat knitting and 
 singing in the Porte Cochfere of No. 29, on a warm sum- 
 mer afternoon. Her joyous refrain ceased, for a mo- 
 ment, as she heard the little gate opposite to the house, 
 belonging to the Countess d'Hivry's garden, creak on
 
 124 The Man whose Life was Saved. 
 
 its hinges, and the next instant saw protruding the 
 round, red head of Francois, the gardener. This appa- 
 rition, though not itself enchanting, gave Mile. Lisa, on 
 this occasion, the liveliest satisfaction. 
 
 " Good-morning, Monsieur FraiiQois," she said, with a 
 beaming smile, as she glanced furtively at the bouquet 
 of flowers which was in his hand. However dull might 
 be the instincts of Fra^ois in many things, they were 
 keen enough where Lisa was concerned; and, recogniz- 
 ing at once the advantages of the situation, he advanced 
 with a profusion of bows, and a grin of ecstasy, to de- 
 posit his tribute of flowers at the feet of his adorata. 
 
 " What beautiful taste you have in flowers, Monsieur 
 Francois," said Lisa, with a perceptible elevation of 
 voice, and with a sidelong glance at the stone trough in 
 the court-yard, whereat Ulysse, the orderly of Colonel 
 de Villefort, was watering his master's horse. Mme. la 
 Contesse d'Hivry says that she could never give a din- 
 ner-party without you to arrange flowers for the Jar- 
 dinieres, and to furnish all that lovely fruit for dessert, 
 which you grow in the glass-houses. 
 
 " As to that," replied Francois, drawing himself up, 
 and assuming an attitude of professional dignity, which 
 had momentarily yielded to the all-absorbing power of 
 Lisa's presence, " as to that, mademoiselle, I can say, 
 without boasting, that the yellow roses and tulips of the 
 Jardin du Roi would never be known for tulips and 
 roses alongside of mine; though for red and white roses 
 I will not say so much, and the pears
 
 The Man whose Life -was Saved. 125 
 
 " O mademoiselle ! how lovely you are with those 
 flowers in your hair ! " cried out the enamored gardener, 
 once more forgetful of his life-long enthusiasm, the pears 
 and roses, and only mindful of the unexpected form of 
 female seduction offered to his distracted gaze. " I 
 never knew that roses could be so beautiful," he added, 
 with a genuineness which would have touched any being 
 less merciless than a girl of eighteen, bent on piquing a 
 more indifferent admirer into something like jealousy. 
 
 " It is your roses," said Lisa, laughing, " that make 
 me, what you call lovely. I don't make the roses. But 
 what have you peeping out of your pocket ? " she in- 
 quired, fearing that the conversation was about to as- 
 sume a more tender character than she desired; " a note 
 I should think " 
 
 " Ah, yes ! I had forgotten," said poor Francois, with 
 a sigh over his own hopeless perturbation. It is from 
 Mme. la Contesse to the Colonel de Villefort, and it 
 was to be given without delay." 
 
 " Ulysse, Ulysse," cried Lisa, gladly availing herself 
 of this welcome diversion, " here is a note for you." 
 
 " Do you not see, mademoiselle," said Ulysee, pettish- 
 ly, not entirely pleased with Fra^ois and his flowers, 
 " do you not see that I am watering the colonel's horse ? 
 I should think, too, that the bearer of a note might de- 
 liver it himself." 
 
 Franqois, with a soothing sense of present preferment, 
 was about to make a good-natured reply, when the col-
 
 126 The Man -whose Life was Saved. 
 
 loquy was terminated by a sonorous voice from an. 
 upper window shouting, " Ulysse ! " 
 
 " Mon colonel." 
 
 "Saddle one of my horses immediately." 
 
 " Impossible to use either to-day, mon colonel; one 
 limps, and I have taken Mars to the blacksmith's, for he 
 cast a shoe this morning." 
 
 " Sapeisti I "What am I to ride then ? There is the 
 horse of Monsieur le Baron always at our service. He 
 is a nasty, stumbling thing, but if it is very pressing " 
 
 Victor de Villefort looked irresolutely out of the 
 window, and twirled his blonde mustache. He was a 
 man between thirty and forty perhaps, distingue in man- 
 ner and bearing, and gifted with a charming sympa- 
 thetic voice.' 
 
 "Here is a note for you, mon colonel" said Lisa, 
 glancing reproachfully at Ulysse, as she tripped lightly 
 across the court-yard, and passing the corridor of red 
 brick, mounted two flights of narrow wooden stairs to 
 the colonel's room. 
 
 " Thank you, mademoiselle," said Victor, courteously, 
 as he took the note. " Ulysse shall stay with me always 
 if you say so. Do the roses worn so gracefully on the 
 left side of the head, indicate consent ? " 
 
 " I wear the roses for the sake of FranQois, the gar- 
 dener of Madame la Contesse d'Hivry, who brings them 
 to me." 
 
 " Ah ! I am always allowing myself to be taken by sur- 
 prise, Lisa," said Victor, opening his note and glancing 
 over its contents. . " I never keep pace with fickleness."
 
 The Man whose Life -was Saved. 127 
 
 "But is it fickleness, mo^t colonel, to like what be- 
 longs to the Contesse d'Hivry ? " inquired Lisa, low- 
 ering her eyes with assumed naivete. 
 
 "JFor you, yes. I should say that it was. But I 
 dare say, with your little malicious airs, mademoiselle, 
 you mean more than that. But I advise you to wear 
 roses on the right side for Ulysse, and then tell him that 
 he must never leave me; and he shall not, I give you my 
 word," said Victor, gayly, taking up his hat and gloves 
 and moving to the door. " What a lucky thing," he * 
 continued to himself as he descended the stair-case, 
 " that the charming countess only asks for a pedestrian 
 cavalier ! If she had asked for a mounted escort, I 
 should have been forced to have recourse to this tire- 
 some baron here," and Victor brushed lightly against 
 the door of a fellow-lodger, " to have used his stumbling 
 horse, and then to have been bored for the rest of my 
 life, or of his life, about helping him to the cross of the 
 Legion of Honor." 
 
 The baron in question was a retired militaire, who, 
 inspired with an insatiable thirst for fame, was writing 
 a military history of France. His chief claims to notice 
 appeared to be the possession of a stumbling horse, and 
 an overwhelming greed of decorations. 
 
 As Victor mused over the consequences of an incau- 
 tious acceptance of the baron's steed, and over the base 
 intrigues in which a pursuit of the coveted cross might 
 involve him, his brow darkened, and his step grew 
 heavier.
 
 128 The Man -whose Life was Saved. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE drawing-room of the Contesse d'Hivry was a 
 comfortable, social-looking apartment, though with too 
 great abandon in the matter of furniture and decora- 
 tions, to claim to be a model of any particular epoch. 
 The well-polished floors and numerous mirrors re- 
 flected back the sun's rays, which sometimes penetrated 
 through the fragrant vines shading the windows. 
 Bright oriental rugs were at the feet of yellow damask 
 ottomans, and the etageres and tables were covered with 
 rare bronzes, costly bits of porcelain, alabaster, and gob- 
 lets of crystal. But the appointments of the room 
 seemed never so complete as when the countess herself 
 was seated in the embrasure of one of the windows, as 
 she was on this occasion, working at her embroidery or 
 her aquarelles. Mathilde d'Hivry enjoyed the de- 
 served reputation of being irresistibly charming. She 
 was Clothing in excess. She was not very young, nor 
 very rich, nor very handsome, nor very clever. But she 
 was exactly what every one desired that she should be 
 at the moment. !N"o one could precisely define why 
 they left her presence in a complacent mood and in a
 
 The Man whose Life was Saved. 129 
 
 friendly attitude towards the whole human race. Such 
 being the case, however, her society was naturally 
 sought for, and reluctantly abandoned. As the count- 
 ess sat this afternoon, listlessly and idly before her 
 aquarelles, quite disinclined for work, and leaning her 
 little head with its great coils of black braids wearily on 
 her hands, her eyes rested mechanically on a miniature 
 likeness near her. The miniature was that of a young 
 man, well-featured, well dressed, well /me', and well- 
 painted. Under the sober tint of the beard and hair 
 was the suggestion of a more fiery hue, the red of the 
 ancient Gaul, just as in the mild brown eyes lurked 
 the possibility of a flash of "/ima Francese," the savage 
 ferocity which centuries of civilization and good man- 
 ners have only smothered in the modern Frenchman, 
 and which shows itself any day in the blouses, as it 
 might in the time of Charlemagne, in spite of their 
 surroundings of millinery, cookery, hair-dressing, and 
 the art of dancing. These reflections, however, were 
 not in the least the source of Mathilde's preoccupation. 
 After a prolonged contemplation of the young gentle- 
 man's miniature, she exclaimed petulantly, " Why should 
 my aunt and uncle urge me to marry again, especially 
 Armand ? " always regarding the brown eyes of the 
 miniature. " He looks mild enough there on ivory. 
 But I can imagine him clothed with the authority of a 
 husband, making scenes of jealousy, interfering, dictat- 
 ing, and being quite insupportable. I like him too well 
 
 to expose him to such temptations. "We are much bet- 
 12
 
 130 The Man -whose Life was Saved. 
 
 ter as we are. There is De Villefort. He is more solid, 
 and more simple in character, but terribly in earnest, I 
 should say. And they say he will never marry. Some 
 disappointment in the past, or some hope for the future 
 will keep him as he is, so they say, at least ; " and she 
 fell into another revery, which was finally interrupted 
 by a servant announcing the Colonel de Villefort. 
 
 " Oh ! I am so glad that you could come to-day," said 
 the countess, resuming her wonted gayety. "Do you 
 share my wish for a stroll in the park this afternoon, 
 whilst the band is playing ? " 
 
 " I always share your wishes, dear countess, and am 
 too happy when I may share your pleasures." 
 
 " That is almost a compliment, I should say, and you 
 think yourself incapable of paying one. "Why do you 
 never pay compliments ? " 
 
 " I will tell you, if you will, in return, tell me why the 
 portrait of Monsieur Armand is always so near your 
 favorite seat." 
 
 " The reason is, I suppose," said the countess, laugh- 
 ing, " that I am so used to it, that I am quite unconscious 
 whether it is there or not." 
 
 " Then I will tell you why I rarely pay you compli- 
 ments, because I like you too well." 
 
 " So you can only compliment those whom you dis- 
 like ? " 
 
 " On the contrary, those to whom I am indifferent." 
 
 "But Colonel de Villefort," exclaimed the countess, 
 gravely tying on her white bonnet before the mirror
 
 The Man -whose Life was Saved. 131 
 
 and observing, with satisfaction, that the soft white lace 
 brought out the lustre of her rich hair and her clear 
 gray eyes, " do you know that public opinion decides 
 that you will never marry ? " 
 
 "Public opinion, perhaps, is wise enugh to decide, 
 because I never have married, that I never shall," re- 
 plied De Villefort, offering his arm to the countess as 
 they passed through the door. 
 
 " There is certainly a reason for such a supposition in 
 your case, for you have had inducements to marry." 
 The colonel was grave and thoughtful, and, for a few 
 moments, they walked on in silence until the sound of 
 music roused him from a revery which Mathilde cared 
 not to disturb. " We are in the park now," he said, at 
 last, and almost in the midst of ' public opinion,' " he 
 added laughing; "but, after the music, if you are not 
 too tired for a stroll in the Jardin du Koi, I will tell you 
 some incidents of my early life, and you shall judge 
 whether I can marry." 
 
 " Oh ! thank you," said the countess, eagerly and 
 gratefully, more with her eyes than her voice, for the 
 latter was quite lost in a blast of Eoland a Koncevaux 
 from the trumpets of one of the imperial bands. The . 
 afternoon being warm, the band was ranged in a circle 
 under the protecting shade of the great, careless old 
 trees ; but the sun's rays penetrated here and there 
 through their branches, throwing a golden light on the 
 curls of rosy children frolicking on the green grass, 
 casting an aureole of glory around the heads of gray-
 
 132 The Man whose Life -was Saved. 
 
 haired old men, and glittering in the epaulets of flighty 
 young officers. There were knots of people grouped 
 about in every direction, French girls, by the side of 
 their chaperons, immersed in needle- work; imperious 
 English misses staring haughtily at the officers; ladies 
 of opulent financial circles, in striking toilets of the 
 last mode, fresh from Paris, and a few relics of the 
 " Andenne Noblesse" plainly attired, and looking curi- 
 ously and, perhaps, disdainfully from their small exclu- 
 sive coterie, at all this bourgeois splendor. Old women 
 with weather-beaten, parchment faces, under neat frilled 
 caps, were possibly retrieving, in their old age, the errors 
 of a stormy youth, by carrying on the " Service des 
 chaises" Others were plying a brisk trade among the 
 children by the sale of cakes, plaisirs, and parlor bal- 
 loons. 
 
 Joining a group of acquaintances, Victor fastidiously 
 placed Mathilde's chair in a position sheltered from in- 
 convenient sunlight, in proper proximity to the music, 
 and where no dust could tarnish the hem of her floating 
 immaculate robe. In these commonplace "petits soins" 
 common enough in the life of any woman of society, 
 Mathilde recognized a spirit of sincere devotion and 
 protecting affection, which gave her, at the same time, a 
 thrill of joy, and an undefined sense of apprehension 
 and lingering regret. The Contesse d'Hivry passed, 
 in the world's estimation, as a model of happiness, and, 
 in one sense, she was happy. Gifted with health, a 
 kindly, joyous nature, a due share of worldly advan- 

 
 The Man whose Life -was Saved. 133 
 
 tages, and an easy philosophy which enabled her to 
 accept cheerfully all daily cares and petty vexations, she 
 was to be envied. But she had, as we all have, her own 
 particular demon, who was fond of drawing aside a dark, 
 impenetrable curtain, and showing her, in a vision of ex- 
 ceeding loveliness, the might-have-beens, and the might- 
 be, of this deceptive life, and just as she would rush 
 forward tojseize on these delicious illusions, they would 
 straightway vanish, leaving her to stare once more 
 hopelessly at the same dark, impenetrable curtain. As 
 the countess looked out beyond the great trees at the 
 velvet sward of the Tapis Vert, at the orange-shrubs in 
 their green boxes, at the rows of antique statues on their 
 solitary perches, leading to the great fountain, and then 
 the broad massive steps leading at last to the distant 
 chateau, she wondered whether the little demon of " le 
 grand Monarque" who had cooked in his majesty's 
 behalf so many pleasant scenes, had ever the audacity 
 to drop, unbidden, the dark curtain before his royal eyes. 
 Whatever had been done, or left undone, in the case of 
 " le grand Monarque" the demon had conjured up spec- 
 tacles for some of his successors, which had not been so 
 pleasant. It had not been the fate of all to look from 
 their bed of state, with dying eyes, on the finer alleys, 
 the shining lake, and the peaceful grandeur of the royal 
 grounds. The curtain had been drawn once for a sleep- 
 ing queen, and had revealed so dreadful a picture, that 
 she had fled from her bed at midnight to escape it. The 
 demon, wearied with the eternal scene of the marquis 
 12*
 
 134 The Man -whose Life -was Saved. 
 
 and marquise, in powder and high heels, bowing and 
 mincing before their Great King, had chosen to vary his 
 pleasures by calling up the old forgotten Gaul, with his 
 red beard and his ferocious eye, to storm and rage at 
 the chateau gates. 
 
 Mathilde had wandered so far away with her demon 
 and his pictures, that she was astonished, in turning her 
 eyes, to find Victor gazing at her with a lookt>f troubled 
 inquiry. The music had changed its character, and the 
 triumphal strains of Roland & Roncevaux had given 
 place to a plaintive melody of the Favorita, and Ma- 
 thilde, glad to know her secret thoughts thus interrogated 
 by Victor, threw them aside and became once more 'the 
 gay and talkative Contesse d'Hivry. 
 
 " How gay you are now," said Victor, addressing the 
 countess, just as the last strains of the Favorita had 
 died away, " when I am quite the reverse. I never can 
 listen to that duo without feeling its meaning, from 
 association, perhaps ; for it is connected with a happy and 
 still painful part of my life. Shall we walk now ? " 
 said Victor, as the countess made her adieus to her 
 friends, and, taking his arm, they sauntered away to the 
 Jardin du Roi. 
 
 " You sang that duo once," said Mathilde, half-inquir- 
 ingly, " and I know more than you think of your past 
 life, for I will tell you with whom ? " 
 
 " You knew her, then ? " asked Victor. 
 
 " Yes, I knew Pauline D'Arblay, slightly, but I have 
 never seen her since her marriage, as Pauline Dusantoy."
 
 The Man whose Life -was Saved. 135 
 
 " She is quite unchanged, at least she was when I last 
 saw her, some years ago, and I think that she can never 
 change," said Victor, enthusiastically. " She must al- 
 ways be beautiful, as she is good, and her native purity, 
 I believe, must always resist the attacks of the world, 
 and leave her unscathed from contamination." 
 
 " Where is she now ? " asked the countess, after a few 
 moments of silence; for in proportion to the warmth 
 evinced by Victor in recalling these memories of the 
 past, his companion was chilled into quiet reflections. 
 
 " In Algiers, I suppose," replied Victor, " where her 
 husband, General Dusantoy, has been for years past." 
 
 " My enthusiasm for Pauline is only surpassed by my 
 affection and reverence for her husband. I have known 
 Dusantoy and have loved him from my earliest child- 
 hood, and have received from him more proofs of unde- 
 viating friendship and unwearied devotion than I can 
 ever repay. He has saved my life, too, though he un- 
 wittingly took from me, what I believed at that time to 
 be all that made life desirable," said Victor sadly, as 
 they approached the palings of the Jardin Du Koi, 
 through which the red and yellow roses and peonies, 
 confident in their gorgeousness, were nodding their heads 
 insolently at the gens d'arme, who paced listlessly be- 
 fore the gate. The verbenas and pansies, equally bril- 
 liant but less flaunting, were dotted about in compact 
 groups in the parterres and on the lawn. The statue, 
 surmounting the column in the centre of the lawn, 
 blackened and defaced by the wear and tear of years,
 
 136 The Man whose Life was Saved. 
 
 looked down grimly from its pedestal, as if to impose 
 silence on all beneath. So that the jardin, in its abso- 
 lute repose, found little favor in the eyes of children and 
 nurses, who respectively chose for their gambols and 
 Iheir flirtations some more joyous and expansive locali- 
 ty. Its sole occupants on this occasion were an elderly 
 priest, too much absorbed in his breviary to be con- 
 scious of the rustling of Mathilde's dress as she passed 
 him, together with a pensive soldier, who possibly 
 sought diversion from the pangs of unrequited affec- 
 tion by tracing with a penknife, on the stone bench 
 which he occupied, an accurate outline of his sword. 
 
 "You knew Pauline d'Arblay as a child," said the 
 countess to Victor, as they seated themselves on a bench 
 at the extremity of the lawn. 
 
 " Yes, we were brought up together, that is, our 
 families were very intimate. She was the only child of 
 her parents, and I was the youngest of a large family ; 
 but as my brothers and sisters were much older than 
 myself, and Pauline was nearer my age, we were always 
 together, and, until I was sent to college, she was my 
 constant playmate." 
 
 " You must regard her as a sister, then," said Ma- 
 thilde. " Remembrances of childish intimacy and sou- 
 venirs of soiled pinafores and soiled faces, I should think, 
 would always be destructive of romance." 
 
 " It might be so, if the transformation of later years 
 did not suggest other sentiments, sentiments which, 
 unhappily for us, were only understood when too late
 
 The Man whose Life ~uas Saved. 137 
 
 for our mutual happiness. I had scarcely seen Pauline 
 since our days of hidte-and-seek in the chateau grounds, 
 until I finished my course at St. Cyr, and returned a 
 sub-lieutenant, to find that Pauline, the- child of the 
 pinafore, as you say, had expanded into a lovely and 
 lovable girl. At that age, however, I believe that few 
 can experience a serious passion. Curiosity and inexpe- 
 rience of life prevent concentration on any one object, 
 and make us incapable of estimating things at their 
 proper value. At college, too, I had formed a romantic 
 friendship for one of my classmates, Dusantoy, and 
 the ardor of this sentiment occupied me entirely, to the 
 exclusion of all others. Dusantoy had a rich uncle, who 
 had purchased a large estate in the vicinity of our cha- 
 teaux. He came to visit his uncle, but passed his time 
 naturally with me. Pauline shared our walks and our 
 drives. "We read to her as she embroidered or sewed, 
 and she sang to us in the summer twilight. "We were 
 very gay and insouciant in those days, little dreaming 
 that our innocent affection would give place to a mad 
 passion, that would one day separate us eternally, and 
 fill our lives with unsatisfied longings. It was not until 
 some time after, that a winter passed by us both in the 
 gay world of Paris revealed to me the nature of my 
 love for Pauline. A jealous fear took possession of me. 
 Seeing her the object of universal homage and admira- 
 tion induced me to declare my love. She had already 
 discarded wealthy and brilliant suitors; and for my 
 Bake. But, alas ! I was the cadet of the family, with
 
 138 The Man -whose Life ?vas Saved. 
 
 only a good name, my sword, et voila tout I " Pauline's 
 mamma was more prudent than her daughter and my- 
 self. Circumstances favored her, and separated us. I 
 was ordered, to Africa, and Pauline returned to the cha- 
 teau; but we parted hopefully and confidently, vowing 
 eternal constancy. When we next met, she was the 
 wife of another man, and that man was my best friend, 
 Dusantoy. 
 
 " J/on pauvre ami,'''' said Mathilde, almost inaudibly, 
 and her hand unconsciously rested on his. He pressed 
 it to his lips, and they were both silent. Victor's 
 wound was deep as ever; but the poignancy of such a 
 grief is already much diminished when the consoling 
 voice of another woman and the pressure of her hand 
 can soothe for an instant the anguish of the past, 
 
 " You know, dear Mathilde," continued Victor, " the 
 history of Pauline's misfortunes, the sudden death of 
 her parents, her father's embarrassments and insolvency, 
 and how on his death-bed he implored his only child to 
 save the honor of his name by accepting the hand of a 
 man in every way worthy of her, and who, at his uncle's 
 recent death, had come into possession of an immense 
 fortune, a portion of a Conte d'Arblay's forfeited es- 
 tate. I was in Africa when the news came to me that 
 Pauline was affianced to Dusantoy. But I heard it 
 without a murmur; for I heard it from Dusantoy 's own 
 lips. He had been sent to Algiers on an important 
 mission, and came to confide in me in all the rapture 
 and ecstasy of his love. Nothing makes one so self-
 
 The Man whose Life was Saved. 139 
 
 ish and inconsiderate as an absorbing happiness. Be- 
 sides, poor Dusantoy believed my love for Pauline to 
 be purely fraternal. In my grief and despair, I believed 
 once that I must tell him that he was robbing me of my 
 sole treasure and hope in life; but, fortunately for him, 
 for us both, perhaps, for I should never have ceased 
 to repent such an act of cowardice, I was seized with 
 brain fever, and for some time my life was despaired 
 of. Meanwhile, Dusantoy, with characteristic devotion, 
 postponed his return to France and to Pauline, that he 
 might watch over me; and to his untiring assiduity and 
 unceasing care I undoubtedly owe my recovery. But 
 that is not all. Another accident befell me, which 
 would unquestionably have proved fatal to my exis- 
 tence had not the skill and courage of Dusantoy again 
 interposed to save me. At the beginning of my conva- 
 lescence, when I was first able to walk a few steps in 
 the open air, I was one day pacing the court-yard of 
 the house where I lodged, when a low, suppressed roar 
 struck my ear, and turning my head, I saw that a large 
 lion had entered the open door-way, and was standing 
 within a few paces of me. My first emotion was not 
 that of terror, not the same which I see on your face 
 at this moment, chere contesse," said Victor, laughing ; 
 " for I recognized the animal as a tame, well-conducted 
 lion belonging to a gentleman living in the outskirts of 
 the city, and was about to approach him, when the sight 
 of blood trickling from a wound in his side, and the 
 menacing look of his eye, warned me to retreat. Es-
 
 140 The Man -whose Life was Saved. 
 
 cape by the outer door was impossible, as well as en- 
 trance to the house, for the lion barred the passage 
 which led to both doors; but I thought of a gate lead- 
 ing to a side street, which was now my only means of 
 flight, "With feeble, tottering steps I had gained this 
 point, and in another instant should have made my es- 
 cape; but, by a singular fatality, the gate was bolted. 
 I had neither strength to force it nor agility to scale the 
 wall. The lion, irritated by his wound, and excited, as I 
 found afterwards, by previous pursuit, followed me with 
 another ominous roar and a look of hostility far from 
 encouraging to one in my position. 
 
 " Of all that followed I have but a confused idea. I 
 was weak aud ill, my brain reeled ; but I remember 
 that, as the lion was about to spring, a violent blow 
 made him turn with a snarl of rage, and spring towards 
 a new adversary, Dusantoy, who stood, gun in hand, 
 in the centre of the court-yard. Then the report of a 
 fire-arm, and I can recall nothing further. Dusantoy 
 was an admirable shot, took cool aim, and hit the lion 
 in the heart. Pauline and I fancied that we felt the 
 recoil of the weapon in our own hearts for many a long 
 clay afterwards. But perhaps it was mere fancy," said 
 Victor, lightly, as he watched the cheek of the countess 
 growing paler as he spoke. 
 
 " To end my long story," continued Victor, " after 
 these experiences I took a voyage to reestablish my 
 health; and, when I returned, I spent a week in the 
 same house with General Dusantoy and his wife. It
 
 The Man whose Life -was Saved. 141 
 
 was heroic on iny part; but I could stay no longer, and 1 
 have never seen thern since. And now you understand, 
 chere contesse, why I have never married." 
 
 " I understand for the past ? Yes," said Mathilde, 
 rising from her seat; "but the future" her sentence 
 terminated in a shrug. 
 
 The last rays of sunlight were gilding the head of the 
 statue on the lawn; the priest had closed his book, and, 
 with the swift, noiseless tread of his order, had glided 
 from the garden; the melancholy soldier had girded his 
 s \vord about him, after leaving its-dimensions gracefully 
 reproduced on the bench where he sat, and had followed 
 the priest; the evening air was damp and chill, and Vic- 
 tor drew Mathilde's shawl around her with tender care. 
 
 " You are tired, dear Mathilde," said Victor. " You 
 are pale; I have wearied you with my long stories, 
 Appuyez vous 5ien sur raoi," and he drew her arm 
 through his, as they turned their steps homeward. 
 
 " Ydu have made me so happy to-day ! " said Victor, 
 as they approached the house of the countess. " Will 
 you give me some souvenir of this afternoon, the 
 ribbon that you wear ? " 
 
 " We will make an exchange then," said Mathilde, 
 laughingly, as she handed the ribbon. " I will give a 
 ribbon for the flowers in your button-hole; and we will 
 see who is most true to their colors." 
 
 A passionate pressure of the hand and a lingering 
 kiss on Mathilde's primrose gloves were the only reply, 
 and they parted. The delicate odor of the primrose 
 13
 
 142 The Man whose Life was Saved. 
 
 gloves lingered with Victor, as he sauntered homeward 
 in the dim twilight. The earnest, almost appealing, 
 look of Mathilde, as he parted from her, haunted him. 
 
 " Could I ever forget and be happy ? " he asked of 
 himself. The very idea seemed to him an unpardonable 
 infidelity, a culpable forgetfulness of past memories, 
 which lowered him in his own estimation. At the cor- 
 ner of the Hue Arc en Ciel he encountered Mile. Lisa, 
 hanging contentedly on the arm of Ulysse. Poor 
 Francois and his flowers were forgotten at that mo- 
 ment, and Lisa had abandoned herself to the delights of 
 allaying a jealousy successfully roused in the heart of 
 the gallant Ulysse by her recent tactics. 
 
 " Mon colonel" said Ulysse, " a lady has called twice 
 to see you in your absence. The last time she waited 
 a long while in your room, and finally left a note, 
 which she said was important and must be handed to 
 you at once." 
 
 " A lady ! Who can it be ? My venerable maiden 
 aunt, I suppose," said Victor, shrugging his shoulders, 
 " who has lost her vicious, snarling poodle, a wretched 
 brute that always bites my legs, when I dare to venture 
 them in my aunt's snuff-colored saloon, and that I am 
 expected to find for her now, by virtue of my name of 
 Villefort." 
 
 "The lady is young, handsome, and in widow's 
 weeds," said Ulysse, half in reply to his colonel's mut- 
 tered soliloquy, as he ran before him and vanished 
 into the court-yard of No. 29, in search of the note.
 
 The Man -whose Life was Saved. 143 
 
 The twilight deepened and thickened on the silent lit- 
 tle street. The oil lamp, hanging from the rope at the 
 corner, was lighted, but its feeble rays only penetrated a 
 short distance, leaving the rest wrapt in mystery and 
 gloom, and the gate opening from the Contesse d'Hivry's 
 garden, Francois' portal of happiness, through which he 
 passed into the blissful presence of his Lisa, was scarce- 
 ly discernible. The evening was clear and fine, how- 
 ever, the stars were beginning to glimmer in the sky, 
 and a faint band of light in the east was growing every 
 moment into glistening silver, under the rays of the com- 
 ing moon. 
 
 After parting with Victor, Mathilde entered the 
 salon, and, throwing herself languidly into a chair, re- 
 called with feminine minuteness the events and conver- 
 sation of the afternoon, until oppressed with the light 
 and warmth of the house, she sought refuge in the cool 
 air of the fraZcon, and, leaning on the balustrade, looked 
 dreamily through the honeysuckle vines at the par- 
 terres and lawn beyond. The meditations of the coun- 
 tess, however, were' not exclusively romantic, in spite 
 of the languid grace of her attitude, and the poetic ab- 
 straction of her gaze. She was fortifying herself against 
 an attack of imprudent tenderness, by sternly picturing 
 to herself all the practical disadvantages of a marriage 
 of inclination. Could she incur the lasting displeasure 
 of her aunt and uncle by marrying any one save her 
 cousin Armand ? Could she sacrifice the half of her 
 fortune, which was the penalty of such a caprice of the
 
 144 The Man whose Life was Saved. 
 
 heart, and sink into comparative poverty ? The souvenir 
 of a single phrase, however, in the tender inflection 
 of a manly voice, " Appuyez vous bien sur raoi," 
 was ever present to her memory quickening the beat- 
 ings of her heart, and bringing the warm blood to her 
 cheeks. The moon had risen, pouring a flood of sil- 
 ver light over Francois' roses, and the pots of cactus 
 on the garden- wall. The countess strolled into the gar- 
 den, and, fancying that she heard a whispered conversa- 
 tion proceeding from the little gate leading into the 
 Rue Arc en Ciel, she turned her footsteps in that direc- 
 tion. 
 
 " Is that you, Lisa ? " asked the countess, rightly sus- 
 pecting that the muslin dress, fluttering in the moonlight, 
 could belong to none other than the daughter of the 
 worthy Mme. Ledru, and that she was about to sur- 
 prise a tete-a-tete between the coquettish Lisa, and her 
 gardener, the enamored Francois. 
 
 " Yes, madame," said Lisa, " can I be of any ser- 
 vice ? " 
 
 The countess shared poor Franqois' partiality for 
 Lisa. Her bright eyes and shining hair were pleasant 
 to look at, and her quick wit and cheerful voice made her 
 a nice companion, and then she enjoyed the inestimable 
 privilege of living in the same house with Victor de 
 Villefort. Perhaps some bit of intelligence concerning 
 him would escape her, whatever it might be, Mathilde 
 knew that it would be of thrilling interest to her. If 
 there was to be a morning-parade the following day,
 
 The Man -whose Life was Saved. 145 
 
 Mathilde would go to the Terrain de Manoeuvre, to 
 see her hero "en grande tenue" in the staff of the Gene- 
 ral. 
 
 " "What a beautiful moonlight, Lisa ! "Will you walk 
 with me towards the lake ? Fetch my shawl Tirst from 
 the house." 
 
 " Here it is, madame," said Lisa, quite breathless, as 
 she returned with the shawl, and wrapped it around 
 Mathilde. Francois unbarred the gate and they stepped 
 into the street. 
 
 " I should like to know, madame, what has befallen 
 the Colonel de Villefort this evening," said Lisa, divin- 
 ing with tact the role she was destined to play. 
 
 " What has happened ? " asked Mathilde, with ill- 
 feigned unconcern. 
 
 " "We cannot imagine, madame. But this afternoon, 
 during the absence of Colonel de Villefort, a lady in 
 deep mourning, young and handsome, called to see him. 
 Finding that he was not at home, she left a note for him, 
 and when the colonel read it, he was wild with excite- 
 ment, and called to Ulysse for his horse. The horse was 
 lame, and not fit for use, and the colonel swore, for the 
 first time, I think since he has been in our house. That 
 is saying a great deal for a militaire, madame. Ulysse 
 has never seen the lady before. The colonel never re- 
 ceives any lady but his aunt the Marquise de Ville- 
 fort, and that is also saying a great deal for a mili- 
 taire, js it not, madame ? " 
 
 " Well, did he get a horse ? " asked Mathilde, with a 

 
 i^G The Man whose Life was Saved. 
 
 severity which astonished Lisa, in the unconsciousness 
 of her childish babble. 
 
 " Yes, madame; there is the horse of a queer baron, 
 who lives with us, who often puts his horse at the dis- 
 posal of Monsieur le Colonel. The horse stumbles too, 
 but the colonel mounted him and rode off in furious 
 haste." 
 
 " "Who can she be ? " asked the countess with an anxi- 
 
 
 
 ety impossible to repress. " Did he take this direction 
 when he rode away ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame, he rode toward the lake. But take 
 care, take care, madame ! " shrieked Lisa, as the furious 
 clatter of a horse's hoofs on the pavement warned her 
 of danger. They had barely time to take refuge in an 
 open door-way, before a riderless horse dashed past them. 
 
 u 'Tis the baron's horse, and the colonel, madame. 
 Mon Dieu I Mon Dieu I "What has become of him ? 
 Let me run for ITlysse." 
 
 " And I will go on to the lake," said the countess ; " per- 
 haps." 
 
 " Not alone, madame," exclaimed Lisa. 
 
 But the countess had already disappeared under the 
 shadow of the houses, and Lisa, equally fleet of foot, 
 vanished in the opposite direction, in search of Ulysse. 
 Mathilde hurried on, whither she knew not. A blind 
 instinct stronger than reason warned her that delay 
 would be fatal, and that the life, grown to be so pre- 
 cious in her eyes, was awaiting her coming, flickering 
 and failing, perhaps, as it hovered near death, which 

 
 The Man whose Life -was Saved. 147 
 
 was for her to avert. She redoubled her pace, and flew 
 through the silent street, where she had passed but a few 
 hours before leaning on Victor's arm. She saw the lake 
 before her, calm and silvery. There was a hill to descend, 
 and at the foot, by the side of the lake, was a loose pile 
 of stones. She sprang forward to pick up something in 
 the road. It was a riding-whip which she knew well 
 and had handled a hxmdred times. For an instant she 
 was motionless, her head swam, and her eyes closed to 
 shut out the sight of a prostrate form, lying at her feet 
 so still and calm in the white moonlight. She knew 
 that, too. She knew well the blonde hair stained with 
 blood, trickling from a wound near the temple; and with 
 a wild cry for help, Mathilde raised the head, half-buried 
 in mud and water, and gazed despairingly at the closed 
 eyes and rigid features of Victor de Villefort.
 
 148 'The Man whose Life was Saved. 
 
 m. 
 
 THE autumn days had come again, and the sun shone 
 on heaps of dried brown leaves, which went whirling 
 about in the Rue Arc en Ciel, with every gust of wind. 
 Mile. Lisa was in fcer accustomed seat in the door-way, 
 No. 29, with shining hair and rosy cheeks, absorbed in 
 the customary knitting, but still capable of casting sly 
 glances in the direction whence Frangois or Ulysse 
 might finally appear. She was not fated to languish 
 long in solitude, for the faithful Frangois, never suffi- 
 ciently confident of his personal attractions to present 
 himself empty-handed before the object of his admira- 
 tion, was soon standing by her side, fortified with a pro- 
 pitiatory offering of grapes. 
 
 " O Frangois," exclaimed Lisa, " how glad I am to see 
 you ! Has Mme. la Contesse really gone ? " 
 
 "Yes, she has gone," replied Francois. "Monsieur 
 Armand and the aunt of madame have accompanied her. 
 But you should have seen her pale face, all covered with 
 tears. It would have made you weep, too, Mile. Lisa, 
 for it made me. Just think, mademoiselle, she never
 
 The Man whose Life -was Saved. 149 
 
 once tasted of the grapes that I picked for her this morn- 
 ing, and placed so neatly in a little basket." 
 
 And poor Franqois groaned audibly over this con- 
 clusive proof of the countess's changed and melancholy 
 condition. 
 
 " Ah, poor madame, she has been so ill ! But why 
 did she go, then ? " asked Lisa. 
 
 "Monsieur Armand and her aunt told her that she 
 would never get well here, and that she needed change 
 of air, and so they hurried her away, only giving her 
 time to write a few lines to your colonel, whose life is 
 not worth saving, if he cannot love Mme. la Contesse. 
 Here is the packet for Colonel de Villefort." 
 
 " Yes, it was very brave and good of madame," said 
 Lisa, " to find the colonel, and to pull his head out of 
 the water. He must have suffocated, so says the doctor, 
 if madame had not found him when she did. But there 
 is some mystery about the handsome lady in deep mourn- 
 ing. I know who she is. She is the widow of General 
 Dusantoy, who lately died in Algiers ; and she came every 
 day to inquire for Colonel de Villefort, when he was not 
 expected to live; but since he is better, I have seen no 
 more of her." 
 
 " Well, I will say again," said FranQois, " that if your 
 colonel finds the lady handsomer and better than Mme. 
 la Contesse, then madame had better left his head in the 
 water." 
 
 Whilst Victor and his affairs were thus discussed be- 
 low-stairs with the intelligence and fairness usually devel-
 
 150 The Man whose Life was Saved. 
 
 oped in such discussions, he sat in his room above, pale 
 and thin, the shadow of his former self, twisting his 
 blonde mustache, and gazing moodily through the win- 
 dow at distant hills, all brown and yellow with autumn 
 leaves and autumn sunlight. His meditations were far 
 from cheerful. People were perpetually saving his life. 
 Here was a new dilemma: Pauline free once more, 
 free and true to her early love. Happiness once more in 
 his grasp; but Mathilde was not his honor half-en- 
 gaged, as were his feelings a few weeks since ? Could 
 he so readily forget all that had passed between them, 
 and all that he owed her ? Could he repay the debt of 
 his life by vapid excuses or by cold desertion? He 
 gazed mechanically at colored prints of Abelard and 
 Heloise, hanging side by side on the wall, and hoped 
 that inspiration, or at least consolation, might descend 
 on him from these victims of unhappy passion. But 
 in Abelard's face he looked in vain for anything beyond 
 conceited pedantry, and Heloise was too much absorbed 
 in her own mighty resignation to trouble herself con- 
 cerning the woes of others. A tap at the door roused 
 him at last from this unprofitable contemplation, and in 
 reply to his " entrez" the bright face of Mile. Lisa ap- 
 peared at the open door. 
 
 "Bon jour, monsieur; here is a letter from Mme. la 
 Contesse d'Hivry, who has gone this morning with her 
 aunt and Monsieur Armand," and Lisa paused to notice 
 the efiect of her abrupt announcement. 
 
 " Gone ! " said Victor, with unfeigned astonishment. ' 
 " Where has she gone ? "
 
 The Man whose Life was Saved. 151 
 
 But Lisa observed that the "hand of the colonel, as he 
 opened the packet, was, in spite of recent illness, omi- 
 nously steady, and that the surprise naturally occasioned 
 by the news of the countess's departure was quite un- 
 mingled with the grief and despair which mademoiselle 
 had kindly hoped to evoke. If she had dared, however, 
 to remain until the opening of the packet, her curiosity 
 and interest would have been rewarded by observing 
 Victor's start of pained surprise as a faded flower fell 
 from the open letter, and his sigh of genuine regret as 
 the memory of the last happy day passed with Mathilde 
 d'Hivry came to him in full force, effacing, for the 
 moment, all trace of his recent reflections, and investing 
 the image of Mathilde with all the poetical charm of an 
 unattainable dream of happiness. She was no longer 
 an obstacle in the fulfilment of his life-long hopes, 
 hopes persistently cherished, yet cruelly baffled. He 
 looked wistfully at the faded flower as he crushed it in 
 Ms hand, and recalled their last parting, and though the 
 souvenirs of the day the flower from his button-hole, 
 and the ribbon which she had worn had been lightly 
 exchanged and laughingly given, he knew well that the 
 worthless relic, which he now crumbled into dust and 
 threw from the window, would have been tenderly kept 
 and treasured in good faith, had his destiny so willed it. 
 Victor turned sadly to the letter which lay before him, 
 in Mathilde's delicate writing. It began cheerfully 
 enough, however, as her letters were wont to do.
 
 152 The Man -whose Life -was Saved. 
 
 " I cannot leave you, dear Victor, without a word of 
 parting, and I fear that a personal interview between 
 invalids, like ourselves, might not conduce to our mu- 
 tual recovery. In my own case, absolute change of air 
 and scene are ordered, together with perfect quiet and 
 rest. The one is easily gained by going to Italy; but do 
 we ever attain the other ? or would we attain it, if we 
 could ? When we next meet, for we must meet some 
 day, mon amt, we shall know, by looking in each other's 
 eyes, how obedient we have been to our physician's ad- 
 vice, and how great has been its efficacy. The climate 
 of Paris will heal in your case, dear Victor, all that 
 time has left unhealed, and I shall prepare for your 
 coming, by making a visit of explanations as well as of 
 adieus. Lest you find this enigmatical, I must explain, 
 that certain rumors concerning us, so rife in our little 
 town, have reached the ears of one who daily awaits you 
 in Paris. I shall see Pauline Dusantoy, and dissipate 
 all doubts, by announcing my immediate departure for 
 Italy. I send you a faded rose-bud, which you may re- 
 member in all its freshness, and which I have no heart 
 to throw away. But you know how jealous Armand is. 
 Adieu, dear Victor, my hope in the future is, that the 
 life which I have just seen trembling on the brink of 
 eternity, may be crowned with full and perfect happi- 
 ness. Adieu." 
 
 Colonel de Villefort was still weak and easily moved, 
 and a choking sensation in the throat made him quite
 
 The Man whose Life -was Saved. 153 
 
 uncomfortable, as he placed carefully in a little drawer 
 the letter which he had just read. He was still haunted 
 by a wistful look of soft and winning eyes, and he seemed 
 to hear the whispered adieu of a silvery voice, whose 
 pure tones had so often charmed and soothed him. Is 
 the adieu eternal ? he asked himself. I think not, for I 
 want no nobler and truer friend for my Pauline than the 
 Contesse d'Hivry, and Pauline will hold sacred as myself 
 the debt of gratitude due to the woman who has saved 
 my life. But the idea of marrying Monsieur Armand ! 
 To be sure he is handsome, rich, well-connected, and has 
 a certain charm in conversation, but quite incapable of 
 appreciating so noble a being as Mathilde; and then 
 what want of taste on her part ! Victor's impatience 
 was changing rapidly into indignation, at the thought of 
 the Contesse d'Hivry presuming to marry, or trying to 
 be happy, when another knock at the door changed the 
 current of his thoughts. This time it was Ulysse 
 and not Lisa who was the bearer of a letter, covered 
 with armorial bearings, and addressed with many flour- 
 ishes to Colonel de Villefort. 
 
 " "What does the German baron want now ? " said 
 Victor, with an impatient shrug as he glanced at the 
 writing, " after breaking my neck with his wretched 
 brute of a horse ? He sends many compliments of con- 
 gratulation to Monsieur le Colonel for his rapid recovery 
 after the deplorable accident, etc., etc., etc. And as he 
 understands that Monsieur le Colonel contemplates a visit 
 to Paris, the moment that his health permits, may Mon- 
 14
 
 154 The Man whose Life was Saved. 
 
 sieur le Baron hope for his gracious intercession in his be- 
 half, that he may at last receive the reward of merit, the 
 much-desired cross of the Legion of Honor. Just as I 
 supposed," said Victor, laughing. " It would save me 
 much trouble and mental agony to give him mine, only 
 I remember that Pauline has a weakness for these bau- 
 bles." 
 
 " Mon colonel, may I say a word ? " asked Ulysse, 
 awkwardly, turning the door-knob to keep himself in 
 countenance. " Mile. Lisa " 
 
 " Is that the word, my good Ulysse ? " said Victor, 
 waiting in vain for Ulysse to complete his sentence. I 
 understand that you should think it the only word worth 
 uttering, and I think you quite right. There is only 
 poor Franqois, who may object to have his heart broken. 
 Lisa is a nice girl, and I have promised her that you 
 should not leave me." 
 
 " Thank you, Mon colonel" said Ulysse, glowing 
 with exultation and triumphant pride. 
 
 "Now pack my portmanteau. I shall go to Paris 
 to-morrow in the early train."
 
 THE ROMANCE OF A WESTERN TRIP. 
 
 (155)
 
 THE EOMANCE OF A WESTERN TRIP. 
 
 HE two following letters, received by me in the 
 year 1852, will explain themselves. 
 
 MY DEAR "W : "When I left you at 
 
 the depot in Boston, and was whirled away 
 westward, I knew not from what point I should ad- 
 dress you. I promised you, on the last evening that we 
 passed together, that from time to time I would, for 
 your delectation, give you an account of any adventure 
 I might chance to meet with in my wanderings; as, also, 
 to try my hand at pen-and-ink sketches of men and 
 manners. 
 
 " Could you appreciate my surroundings, you would 
 give me credit for a truthful a&herence to my word. 
 As to where I am at this present writing, I cannot say. 
 In order to understand why I make so strange a state- 
 ment, I must begin my story some weeks back, and 
 narrate an incident that befell me, and led to the pen- 
 ning of this epistle. 
 
 " The month of May, in our northern climate, needs 
 14* (157)
 
 158 The Romance of a Western Trty. 
 
 no laudation as to its charms ; and, after a sojourn of 
 many years in your crowded city, I was fully prepared 
 to appreciate all the beauty of this spring-time among 
 the wilds of Michigan. Therefore, after leaving Detroit 
 for the interior, I soon found (as the days were growing 
 much warmer) that it would be wisdom for me to dis- 
 card most of the luggage with which I had encumbered 
 myself; as, by so doing, I could, as it were, cut loose 
 from dependence upon vehicles of all descriptions; and, 
 when my desires pointed that way, or a necessity arose, 
 I could make use of those powers of locomotion with 
 which nature has endowed me. Therefore, at the ter- 
 mination of the stage-route at H , I selected a few 
 
 indispensable articles, and, transferring them to a knap- 
 sack, sent back my trunk to an acquaintance at Detroit, 
 with a request to hold it subject to my order, and pre- 
 pared myself for rough travelling in the interior, or, as 
 a New Englander would denominate it, ' the back- 
 woods.' 
 
 " At the country tavern, in which I abode as a guest 
 from Saturday until Monday, I made inquiries of the 
 landlord as to the route I was to take, and the nature of 
 
 the roads between H and the town of N , which 
 
 I desired to visit. My host, a shrewd, bright-eyed little 
 man of forty, and a former resident of New Hampshire, 
 lowered his brows, and assumed a dubious look as he lis- 
 tened to me; and, on my asking for an explanation of this 
 change of countenance, informed me that, had I money of 
 any amount about my person, I had better look to the
 
 The Romance of a Western Trip. 159 
 
 availability of my pistols, and pay particular attention to 
 the company I might fall in with ; for, within the past two 
 years, a number of travellers had been relieved of their 
 possessions, and two of them murdered on the roads I 
 should be under the necessity of passing over. The 
 country being sparsely settled, the officers of the law 
 had been unable to trace the perpetrators of these acts 
 of felony. I listened to these details with much uneasi- 
 ness, for, on leaving Boston, I had, by an acquaintance, 
 been intrusted with a package of three hundred dollars, 
 to deliver to Judge Perry, of N , to meet some pay- 
 ments becoming due on a purchase of pine lands; in 
 addition, I had upon my person some means of my own, 
 the loss of which would indeed be a calamity of a se- 
 rious nature, as I was too far away from friends to avail 
 myself of their good services. I assumed an air of ease, 
 however, which I was far from feeling, and left my lo- 
 quacious friend, laughing defiance at all the dangers of 
 the way. I had been unable to obtain a conveyance 
 at anything like a reasonable rate; therefore, as the 
 weather was so charming, had determined to undertake 
 the journey of seventy miles on foot, trusting to obtain 
 a ride from such travellers I might chance now and then 
 to meet going westward. For two days, I pressed cheer- 
 fully forward, being kindly welcomed to a supper and bed 
 in the cabin of the settlers. The roads were rough, and at 
 places illy defined, and I was often at fault as to my route; 
 this, and want of practice as a pedestrian, made my prog- 
 ress slow. As the evening of the third day drew near, I
 
 160 The Romance of a Western Trip. 
 
 judged I must still be some twenty or twenty-five miles 
 from my destination. I was ascending a hill over the 
 worst road that I had yet encountered. The dwarf pine 
 clothed the whole declivity, and rendered the approach- 
 ing night more gloomy than it would have been in the 
 more open country. I was greatly fatigued from my 
 long day's walk, and, coming to a large boulder that 
 had evidently rolled from the higher ground above, I 
 seated myself to gain strength, and lifted my hat to let 
 the wind cool my heated forehead. Down, far away to 
 my right, I could hear the gurgling and splashing of a 
 torrent, while the sough of the breeze among the pines 
 made a weird music that added somewhat to a depres- 
 sion that had been, for the last hour, gradually stealing 
 over me. The romantic visions I had formerly enter- 
 tained of nature in her solitary moments had all de- 
 parted, and I longed for the companionship of man. 
 Some five miles back, I had been at fault as to my 
 route; but, trusting to good fortune, had taken the road 
 I was now upon. As I sat meditating, I all at once 
 recollected that I had been cautioned, by a man of 
 whom I had inquired, against taking the way that led 
 to the hills ; for, by so doing, I should go astray. Un- 
 decided as to whether it would be better to retrace my 
 steps, or go on, in hopes of finding a lodging for the 
 night, I had arisen, and was hesitating which way I 
 should turn, when I heard the tramp of horses' hoofs, 
 and down, from the higher ground on my left, rode two 
 men.
 
 The Romance of a Western Trip. 161 
 
 " The obscurity had become so great while I had lin- 
 gered, that I could form but an indefinite idea as to their 
 characteristics. The foremost, mounted on a dark-bay 
 horse, was slightly built, and evidently young. His felt 
 hat was so slouched over his face that all I could note 
 was, that he wore beard and mustache long, both of 
 intense blackness. 
 
 " His companion was a much more powerful man, and 
 sat upon the roan mare he bestrode in a careless man- 
 ner; his face, also, was hidden by an equal amount of 
 hair, and, in addition, warm as was the weather, his neck 
 was muffled in a large woollen comforter. My presence 
 evidently took them by surprise, for they abruptly 
 checked their horses, and the younger man pulled 
 sharply upon the bridle, half-turning his steed, and 
 seemed about to retrace the way he had come, without 
 greeting me. He, however, recovered his self-posses- 
 sion, and with a ' Good-evening, stranger,' continued on 
 until he was at my side. I was truly thankful at this 
 encounter, for I felt my doubts as to my movements 
 would now be solved. In a few words, I stated that I 
 had wandered from the road I should have taken, and 
 asked their assistance to set me right. The younger 
 man seemed to labor under restraint, and spoke but lit- 
 tle; the other, however, offered to show me the way, and 
 stated they were going in the direction I desired to pur- 
 sue. They spoke in a manner and used language that 
 convinced me they were men of superior culture from
 
 162 The Romance of a Western Trip. 
 
 those one might expect to meet in the wild and sparsely 
 settled district in which I was now travelling. 
 
 " ' We have no time to spare, if we would get out of 
 these pine-lands and beyond the river-ford before the 
 darkness becomes troublesome,' said the larger man, as 
 he urged his horse to a quick walk along the road up the 
 hill. ' You had best follow me, while my companion can 
 bring up the rear.' 
 
 " Without hesitation, I acted upon his suggestion, as I 
 was anxious to reach a place of rest. ' You should con- 
 sider yourself highly honored to be so escorted and 
 guarded from the dangers of the road,' said my guide, as 
 he half-turned in his saddle, with what I then thought a 
 jocular, but have since recalled as a sinister, laugh. 
 ' Have you any valuable property about you, that you 
 can feel grateful for the convoy? ' Without a thought of 
 the wisdom of silence on this point, I answered : ' More 
 than I should care or can afford to lose, for I am a thou- 
 sand miles from home, and among strangers.' The next 
 moment I felt as if I could have bitten out my tongue 
 for its imprudence; for flashing upon me came the re- 
 membrance of the landlord's tales of robbery and vio- 
 lence. We had turned from the main road to the right, 
 into a narrower track, and were descending the hill toward 
 the river, as I judged; for each moment the noise of Its 
 waters were more audible. In a brief time after my last 
 remark, I felt that the horseman behind me was pressing 
 closer than was needful, and I partly stepped from the 
 path, intending to let him pass ; for I instinctively felt 1
 
 The Romance of a Western Trip. 163 
 
 would rather have them both in front. As I did so, I 
 almost unconsciously placed my hand upon my revolver. 
 The younger man stooped from his saddle as he came 
 abreast of me, and, speaking in a cold, hard tone, ex- 
 claimed, ' My good fellow, we will take charge of your 
 watch and money.' He leaned forward as he spoke, as 
 if to grasp my collar. At the same moment he who 
 rode in front leaped to the ground, and turned toward 
 me. I saw my danger in an instant, and, quickly draw- 
 ing my pistol, fired at the head of my nearest foe. The 
 flash of the powder gave me a more distinct view of his 
 face than I had yet had. As he recoiled from me, I no- 
 ticed a peculiar droop of the left eyelid, and heard the 
 expression, ' My God, I am hit ! ' At the same moment 
 a crushing blow descended upon my skull, and a thou- 
 sand- stars seemed falling around me, and all was black- 
 ness. My return to consciousness was occasioned by a 
 sudden contact with cold water, and I awoke to find 
 myself struggling in the midst of a rushing torrent. 
 Instinctively I grasped at a support, comprehending 
 my situation in an instant. I had been hurled by my 
 assailants into the stream we had been approaching, and 
 they undoubtedly supposed that I was beyond the 
 chance of recovery. The moon was not yet up, and I 
 could discern nothing except the general outlines of the 
 banks of the stream, which, rising high on each side, 
 showed me I was at the bottom of a ravine. It was 
 many minutes ere my efforts were crowned with any 
 degree of success ; at last, as I was hurled along, my
 
 164 The Romance of a Western Trip. 
 
 hands came in contact with the drooping bough of a 
 tree, and, weak as I was from the blow I had received 
 and the benumbing effect of my immersion in the icy 
 current, the principle of self-preservation enabled me to 
 put forth almost superhuman strength, and to retain my 
 hold on this anchor of hope. 
 
 " After many abortive attempts, I succeeded in drag- 
 ging myself up, as it were out of the jaws of death, 
 upon the rocks which composed the banks of the stream. 
 As soon as I felt I was safe from the danger of a watery 
 grave, my strength left me, and I fell back almost ut- 
 terly devoid of life. My head felt as if a thousand trip- 
 hammers were at work upon it; a deadly sickness came 
 over me, and I found that I was relapsing into insensi- 
 bility. By a great effort, however, I overcame this 
 lethargy, and crawled on my hands and knees up over 
 the piled-up rocks and bare roots of trees, until I found 
 myself upon the soft moss and dead leaves beyond. 
 Here I lay for a long time, slowly recovering. On an 
 examination of my person, I found my watch and purse 
 gone, as well as the money-belt containing the three 
 hundred dollars in gold with which I had been intrusted. 
 But what I felt to be a more severe loss than all else 
 was a valuable diamond ring, that had once been my 
 dead mother's, and gwen to me by her in her last ill- 
 ness. Some hundred and fifty dollars in bank-bills and 
 
 a letter of introduction to Judge P , placed two days 
 
 before in one of my boots, had escaped the search of the 
 highwaymen. None of my bones were broken; but a
 
 The Romance of a Western Trip. 165 
 
 frightful swelling upon my head proved the force of the 
 blow dealt me, evidently from the loaded handle of a 
 riding-whip. The pain was intense, and, not knowing 
 how serious might be the injury I had received, I de- 
 termined to seek some shelter while I was yet able to 
 do so. I cannot describe the agony I endured in the 
 next three or four hours. Though weak and suffering, 
 I succeeded in finding by accident a narrow by-path, 
 or trail, leading through the forest, and continued on, 
 shivering with cold, and frequently obliged to throw 
 myself upon the ground, in order to gain strength and 
 rally my wandering senses. The moon came up, and 
 my knowledge of the time of its rising proved to me 
 that I must have been insensible and in the hands of the 
 two ruffians for at least two hours. I was now in a 
 level country once more, having left the hills behind me, 
 and, as the moon rose higher in the heavens, I could 
 distinguish my surroundings without difficulty. I 
 stumbled along the path I was treading, faint and ill, 
 and at last, as I began to think I could go no fur- 
 ther, came to a clearing, and, at my left, beheld a 
 rough log-house among the charred stumps of the trees. 
 I reached the door, and, after many efforts, awakened 
 the sleepy inmates. A good-natured face greeted my 
 sight, as a bushy head was protruded from a narrow 
 window at my right, and a kindly voice asked, ' What 
 is wanted ? ' Each instant growing fainter, I was 
 hardly able to articulate; and, before I could explain 
 my position, I sank insensible upon the threshold. 
 15
 
 166 The Romance of a Western Trip. 
 
 When I say that it is almost three weeks since that 
 occurrence, and that from then until now I have not 
 been in the open air, you will understand how desperate 
 was the illness that followed. My honest host and his 
 good wife have watched over me as if I had been a son 
 instead of a stranger; and to their tender nursing I owe 
 my recovery, for no physician has seen me. Far away 
 from any settlement, upon one of the least frequented 
 cross-roads in the wild section in which they dwell, 
 sometimes weeks would elapse without a wayfarer 
 passing their humble abode. Now, once more, I am 
 able to arise and sit in the sunshine; and I hope soon 
 to be in a condition to seek out the authors of my suffer- 
 ings. As I have lain on my bed, too weak to move, I 
 have thought much, and, strange as it may appear, I 
 feel an innate conviction that I shall not only discover 
 the two men who endeavored to murder me, but that I 
 shall also recover the property I have lost. The reason 
 that I entertain this opinion is this : The very fact of my 
 long insensibility after the blow upon my head, and the 
 subsequent disposal of my body by casting it into the 
 mountain torrent, all go to confirm me in my belief that 
 they thought me dead. Consequently, having no fear 
 of my reappearance, they will not seek to conceal them- 
 selves, or seek refuge from detection by flight. The 
 old lady (whom I have found a great gossip), I pre- 
 sume, thinks it a 'God-send' my being here; for she 
 can now give vent to her loquacity; and, were it not 
 that this letter was already frightfully long, I would
 
 The Romance of a Western Trip. 167 
 
 quote some of her decidedly original remarks for your 
 entertainment. I accounted for the plight I was in by 
 stating that I had missed my footing in the darkness, 
 and fallen into the stream, striking my head upon a 
 projecting rock as I descended. At night when my 
 host has returned from his labor, I have gleaned from 
 him a full description of the country for miles around, 
 
 and find that I can reach N" in a day's ride, and 
 
 that it is one of the most noteworthy places this side of 
 Detroit. As soon as I dare, I shall proceed there, and 
 my next letter will undoubtedly be mailed from that 
 point. I shall not tell you that I wish I had remained 
 in Boston; for to do so would be useless and foolish. 
 I am now desirous of going forward to the accom- 
 plishment of the object I first had in view when I left 
 you, but shall remain, however, in this part of the coun- 
 try, both to regain my health and strength, and to seek 
 out and punish my assailants." 
 
 " MY DEAR "W : "When I finished my last epistle, I 
 
 little thought I should allow six weeks to elapse before 
 I again took up the thread of my story; but, my mind 
 and time have been so fully occupied, that I must crave 
 your indulgence. It is now the latter part of July, and 
 as you know, at this season of the year one does not feel 
 disposed to be loquacious. That you may fully compre- 
 hend my position, however, I must be somewhat more 
 minute in my descriptions than I could wish to be. The 
 sun was near its setting on as lovely a day as I have
 
 1 68 The Romance of a Western Trip. 
 
 ever seen, when I approached the house of which I am 
 still an inmate. The kind-hearted man who had given 
 me shelter and care during my illness, brought me to 
 
 the village of N , and seemed to regret parting from 
 
 me. I walked up the pretty street towards a large, 
 white house standing upon an eminence at its termina- 
 tion, which had been pointed out to me as the residence 
 of Judge Perry. As I paused at a gate leading into the 
 finely-kept grounds, I could, without an effort of the 
 imagination, fancy that I was once more in dear New 
 England, for all evidence of newness seemed to have 
 been obliterated. I turned and looked back upon the 
 scene; the cottages quietly nestling amid a multitude of 
 shade-trees, now clothed in their loveliest garments of 
 green ; far away the encircling hills, and, a little to my 
 left, a pretty stream creeping down the valley, its 
 waters turned to molten silver by the glance of the 
 sinking sun. While lost in revery I had not noticed the 
 approach of an elderly gentleman, who now came for- 
 ward, and placed his hand upon the latch of the gate at 
 which I was standing, at the same time greeting me 
 with the remark of ' A delightful ending to as beauti- 
 ful a day as one need wish for.' I responded, eulogiz- 
 ing both the weather and scenery. Whilst speaking, 
 I took cognizance of my companion, and felt sure, from 
 the descriptions I had received, that I was addressing 
 the owner of the residence; and he, in answer to my in- 
 quiry, answered in the affirmative, and said, ' You are 
 Mr. Jauies H , I presume. I have been expecting
 
 The Romance of a Western Tri-p. 169 
 
 you for some time, having received a letter from my 
 friend in Boston, advising me of your intention of visit- 
 ing me. I heartily welcome you, and trust that on 
 further acquaintance we shall be mutually pleased with 
 each other; but I am keeping you here at the gate, when 
 I should show you truer hospitality by inviting you 
 within.' I accepted his courtesy and was soon in a 
 pleasant bed-chamber, where I made such a toilet as my 
 limited means afforded. As I descended the stairs in 
 response to the summons of the supper-bell, I felt the 
 awkwardness of my position; placed as I was, without 
 a suitable wardrobe, in a family of such evident social 
 standing. Trusting soon to remedy this deficiency, I en- 
 tered a large apartment at the left, and found my enter- 
 tainer ready to lead me to the supper-room. I made 
 some excuses as to my appearance, which he turned off 
 with a jest, and, opening a door, ushered me to the well- 
 spread table. As we came forward, a young lady arose 
 from beside an open window, where she had evidently 
 been awaiting us, and I was introduced to my entertain- 
 er's only daughter. You have frequently bantered me 
 on my stoical indifference to female beauty. And now, 
 when I tell you that she whose hand I took was one of 
 the most lovely of women, you will not have occasion to 
 make allowance for undue enthusiasm. I shall not here 
 attempt to describe her, further than to say, she was a 
 blonde, with glorious eyes and a wonderful wealth of 
 hair. Her voice was music itself, and her every move- 
 ment denoted the grace of a well-bred lady. As we 
 
 15*
 
 170 The Romance of a Western Tri-p. 
 
 seated ourselves at the table, I regained my self-posses- 
 sion, which had been disturbed at this unexpected 
 vision of loveliness. We chatted cheerfully as we par- 
 took of the tea and toast, and I soon felt as if with 
 friends of long standing. "When the repast ended, the 
 daughter lovingly placed her hand on her father's arm 
 to detain him, and my eyes encountered upon it a jew- 
 elled ring that flashed like a thing of life in the lamp- 
 light. Could I be dreaming ? For an instant my brain 
 whirled and I grew giddy, for I had discovered that 
 which I so much prized, and had lost, the last gift of 
 my dead mother. This ring, from the peculiarity of its 
 construction, and the antique setting of the stones, I 
 could not mistake, and yet I could in no wise account 
 for what I saw. One glance at that lovely face, whose 
 every line spoke of innocence, was enough to drive away 
 all suspicions as to her complicity with the men who had 
 sought my life. I cannot detail to you the incidents of 
 that evening; for, short as has been the time since, I have 
 forgotten them. I was as one in a maze, and talked me- 
 chanically, and only awoke to a recollection of what 
 courtesy demanded, when Judge Perry remarked ' that 
 as I was evidently much fatigued, and not yet in my 
 usual health, they would allow me to retire.' I sat at 
 my chamber window gazing out on the moonlit valley 
 until long after midnight, but I could illy appreciate the 
 beauty of the scene. I was seeking to arrange some 
 plan of action by which I might trace up this first clew 
 to a discovery I now felt most certain. At last, wearied
 
 The Romance of a Western Trip. 171 
 
 with fruitless thought, I determined to await the course 
 of events, and to trust to time for additional light. 
 
 " The next few days were agreeably occupied in form- 
 ing a more intimate acquaintance with Helen Perry and 
 her father. I put forth what powers of pleasing nature 
 has endowed me with, and my success seemed complete. 
 Ere long I was on such terms of friendship with them 
 as I desired; and then I learned from Helen that she 
 had lost her mother many years before, soon after 
 their emigration from Eastern New York to their present 
 home. I had thus far passed the time each day until 
 two or three o'clock with the judge in his office, after 
 which I wandered with Helen in the tasteful grounds 
 surrounding her home, or upon the low-lying hills be- 
 yond. Her education had not been neglected, and her 
 reading had been extensive. Thus we could converse 
 upon the merits of the literature of the day, and in such 
 topics discovered we had kindred tastes. She was ever 
 frank and cheerful; and, short as had been our acquaint- 
 ance, my heart was beginning to beat faster at her ap- 
 proach, and each morning, as I awoke, I looked eagerly 
 forward to the hour that would find her disengaged from 
 household duties, and with leisure to devote to me. 
 
 " Once or twice the judge spoke of an absent friend, a 
 Doctor Wentworth, in a manner which caused me some 
 uneasiness ; for, as he did so, he cast upon Helen a good- 
 natured, sly glance that meant much, and always pro- 
 duced a blush upon her sweet face. It was after dinner 
 on Tuesday, that we came out upon the lawn to inspect
 
 172 The Romance of a Western 
 
 a rose-bush, which Helen wished transplanted, when her 
 father remarked, 
 
 " ' By the way, rny dear, I received a letter from Ed- 
 ward this morning, and he tells me he shall be here to- 
 day; so, as in duty bound, and like an ardent lover, I 
 presume he will at once fly to you. I should advise 
 that you forego your accustomed ramble, and remain at 
 home to welcome him. I have no doubt our guest will 
 be pleased for one day to escape the task of following 
 you as an escort.' 
 
 " By the terrible sinking of my heart that these words 
 occasioned, I knew in an instant that I loved her; and, 
 half-glancing at her as I turned away (with difficulty 
 hiding my emotion), thought I saw the bright flush 
 upon her animated face dying away, and a deadly pallor 
 taking its place. I dared not remain and listen to her 
 reply, and therefore wandered on past the summer- 
 house in which I had passed so many pleasant hours with 
 her, until my steps were stayed upon the bank of the 
 stream whose waters had now no music to my ears. I 
 had heretofore been unconscious of the hopes that had 
 gained access to my heart. Day by day I had, as it 
 were, allowed my purposes to slumber. Her charms 
 had bound me a willing captive, and all unwittingly I 
 had cast aside thoughts of the future, and forgotten that 
 the life of inaction in which I was indulging could not 
 last. I had found ample joy and occupation in watching 
 the play of her expressive features, and in listening to 
 the words that came from her lips. After my first few
 
 The Romance of a Western Tri^>. 173 
 
 hours of astonishment and wonder at the discovery of 
 my stolen ring upon her hand, I had ceased, even when 
 alone, to dwell upon the mystery connected with it. 
 Now I was brought back to a remembrance of all I had 
 vowed to do as I lay ill and suffering in the rude log 
 cabin of the settler. It was long before my calmness 
 returned, and my heart ceased to beat wildly. The af- 
 ternoon had waned as I turned back towards the house 
 and friends I had so abruptly left. It was in a more col- 
 lected frame of mind that I ascended the steps, and en- 
 tered the parlor. I am sure that, on encountering those 
 there assembled, not the quiver of a muscle betrayed the 
 agitation I felt. Helen was half-reclining upon a sofa, 
 and leaning upon its back was the form of a tall and 
 rather slightly-built man. She started up as I entered. 
 Could it be that a brighter light beamed in her eyes as 
 they encountered mine ? I knew not, for the judge, who 
 was seated near, was prompt to rise also, and said, 
 
 " 'Mr. Palmer, we are glad of your return. Both 
 Helen and myself were beginning to fear you had been 
 spirited away. Allow me to make you acquainted with 
 Doctor Wentworth. Doctor Wentworth, Mr. Palmer, 
 our guest. I trust that you will learn to value the hour 
 that brings you together.' " 
 
 " I looked the physician full in the face, as I took his 
 hand. The sun, streaming in through the western win- 
 dows, fell full upon his features, bringing out every line 
 in a marvellous manner, and distinctly exposing their 
 play, as he acknowledged my greeting. The counte-
 
 174 The Romance of a Western Trij). 
 
 nance was one to attract the attention, and yet not pleas- 
 ant to look upon. His forehead was high and fair; hair 
 and mustache black as night, chin smoothly shaven and 
 dimpled, and yet the eye repelled me. As I looked at 
 him, I had an unaccountable impression that we had met 
 before, but I could not tell where, or why it seemed as if 
 the circumstances attending it had been of a disagree- 
 able nature. As, after the first words of conversational 
 politeness, he turned to Helen, I had a few moments* for 
 reflection, and suddenly flashed upon me the recollection 
 of the scene in the wood, the man leaning from his 
 horse to grasp my collar, the tones of his voice, the mo- 
 mentary glance I had of his face as T fired my pistol at 
 him, and the peculiar droop of his right eye that I had 
 noticed. Could it be possible ? Had I gained one more 
 clew to the mystery ? Was the man before me the 
 would-be assassin ? No I no ! I was mad to indulge 
 such a thought. This physician, the friend of Judge 
 Perry, a gentleman, and evidently, from the judge's own 
 words, the accepted suitor of his daughter, could be no 
 vulgar highwayman ; and yet, as he maintained a brisk 
 conversation with Helen, and allowed me full opportuni- 
 ty for close observation, the more convinced did I be- 
 come that he was the man. As she raised her hand, I 
 saw the gleam of the diamond upon it. At last the 
 chain of evidence for me was complete. What so natu- 
 ral as that her lover should present this to her ? I 
 thanked God that I was to be made the instrument by 
 which she was to be rescued from such a marriage. I
 
 The Romance of a Western Trip. 175 
 
 forgot my own private desire for vengeance. My love 
 for her this beautiful and innocent girl was of so 
 true a nature, that every other consideration was sub- 
 ordinate to the one for the furtherance of her welfare. 
 By a powerful effort I controlled my feelings, and assumed 
 an air of ease that I could not feel. 
 
 " The doctor was all animation, and talked at a rapid 
 rate, while I thought I had never seen Helen so dull. 
 ' By the way, doctor,' remarked the judge, after we had 
 left the tea-table and entered the parlor, ' have you re- 
 covered from the accident you met with a few weeks 
 ago ? Pistol-shots are anything but pleasant reminders, 
 and you had a narrow escape.' I was gazing directly at 
 him while the judge spoke, and for an instant, even as a 
 summer breeze would ruffle a placid lake, a frown gath- 
 ered upon his brow, and was gone. ' I am as well as I 
 could wish to be,' was the answer, ' and have almost for- 
 gotten the occurrence.' Pleading a dull headache, I re- 
 tired to my chamber at an early hour. I wished to be 
 alone, that I might take counsel with myself as to the 
 course I ought to pursue, in order to bring this scoun- 
 drel and his associate to justice. The longer I dwelt 
 upon the matter, the more convinced I became that my 
 proper course was to make the judge my confidant. 
 He was of years' experience and discretion, and also a 
 deeply interested party, through his daughter's connec- 
 tion with "Wentworth. 
 
 " I slept but li ttle that night, and was in the grounds, 
 when my host came out for a stroll in the morning air,
 
 176 The Romance of a Western Trip. 
 
 I knew that it would yet be an hour before the breakfast- 
 bell would ring; therefore, after speaking of the beauties 
 of the morning, I took his arm as if for a promenade, and 
 said, ' If you can spare me some thirty or forty minutes, 
 and will come where we can by no possibility be over- 
 heard, I will tell you what I know is of vast importance to 
 you. He looked surprised, but acceded to my request at 
 once, recommending the arbor already in view as a desir- 
 able place for private conversation. "We seated ourselves, 
 and, with but few preliminary remarks, I gave him a full 
 account of my adventures since leaving Detroit He 
 did not once interrupt me; but, as I proceeded, his face 
 became more and more ashen, until, as I concluded by 
 denouncing the doctor as one of my assailants, it was as 
 white as that of a corpse. 
 
 " For a minute after I had ceased speaking he remained 
 silent; then, drawing a long breath, he seemed to regain 
 command over himself, and said: 'I can but believe all 
 that you have told me, for there are many circumstances, 
 with which you are evidently unacquainted, that go to 
 corroborate your story. Can you remember the day of 
 the month upon which your murder was attempted ? ' 
 
 " ' The twenty-second,' I replied. 
 
 " 'And on the twenty-fourth,' he said, 'Dr. Wentworth 
 returned home after an absence of some days, in charge 
 of Hugh Chapin, an intimate friend of his. He could 
 with difficulty sit upon his horse, and was apparently 
 suffering severely. He stated that he had been injured 
 by -the accidental discharge of his pistol, but that, as the
 
 The Romance of a Western Tri-p. 177 
 
 ball had only inflicted a flesh-wound in the shoulder, it 
 would soon heal. The explanation was plausible, and 
 no one doubted his word.' 
 
 " ' "Was there any mark upon the ring by which you 
 could identify it ? ' 
 
 "'On the inner-side, below the centre-stone,' I an- 
 swered, ' was the letter P, in Roman characters, and above 
 it was some fine scroll-work, and close observation would 
 show the name of Susie, in minute lettering, amidst it; 
 any one gazing upon it in an ordinary manner would foil 
 to perceive it My mother's maiden name was Susan 
 Palmer, and this ring was presented to her by my father 
 previous to their marriage. I feel sure that an inspection 
 will p?ove my description to be true, although I have 
 not seen the jewel since I lost it except upon your 
 daughter's hand,' 
 
 " ' I am satisfied,' said my companion; ' I have seen the 
 initial P, as you describe it, but as it corresponded with 
 my Helen's family name, I thought it intended for it I 
 can readily identify the larger of the two men, and the 
 one who inflicted the blow that nearly cost your life, in 
 the person of a resident of a farm-house some three 
 miles from us, one Hugh Chapin, a bachelor and the al- 
 most inseparable companion of Dr. Wentworth. I have 
 never been pleased with this intimacy, for I have felt an 
 aversion to this man from my first knowledge of him. 
 As I could give no reason for it, I have said little to 
 Wentworth on the subject They came here about the 
 same time, four years ago, and Dr. W., displaying COn-
 
 178 The Romance of a Western Trip. 
 
 siderable skill in his profession, soon acquired a good 
 practice, and has enjoyed the confidence of the commu- 
 nity. This Chapin purchased the house and farm he 
 now occupies soon after his arrival, and has always 
 seemed to have the command of money, although I learn 
 that he is but an indifferent farmer, and often absent 
 from home for weeks together. I employed Dr. W. in 
 a severe illness I had some two years ago, and after I re- 
 covered he was much at my house, and Helen saw much 
 of him. He proposed for her hand, and at first she 
 seemed inclined to reject his suit, but, thinking the match 
 a desirable one, I persuaded her not to do so. I have 
 since often fancied that perhaps I did wrong in thus using 
 my influence, as she has since their betrothal seemed loth 
 to accord him the privileges of an accepted lover. His 
 profession has often called him away, but I now see it 
 may have frequently afforded an excuse for an absence 
 in which were performed deeds too dark even to con- 
 template. The sheriff of our county is a brave, shrewd 
 man, and I will lay the facts of this case before him, and 
 we will devise the best means of bringing these men to 
 justice. I need not point out to you the wisdom of si- 
 lence; we have cunning knaves to deal with, and must 
 use care, so they may gain no clew to our intentions. 
 Knowing that you had been intrusted with three hun- 
 dred dollars to pay into my hands, I have wondered at 
 your silence on the subject; but your explanation has 
 made all plain at last. It will be difficult to dissemble 
 in the presence of this scoundrel, Wentworth, I know;
 
 The Romance of a Western Trip. 179 
 
 yet for a brief time we must submit to the infliction of 
 
 his presence, and allow him to visit Helen as heretofore.' 
 
 " When we returned to the house, my heart was lighter 
 
 than it had been since my arrival at X . I will pass 
 
 over the record of the next few days, for nothing of im- 
 portance took place. The judge and myself held fre- 
 quent consultations with the sheriff in my host's office; 
 care being taken that these meetings should attract no 
 attention. The doctor was occupied with his patients, 
 as the warm weather was developing disease. Once 
 only had his confederate, Hugh Chapin. made his ap- 
 pearance in the village. I had seen him as he rode np 
 the street to the door of Dr. Wentworth's office, where 
 dismounting, and securing his horse, he entered. I 
 would have given much to have been a private spec- 
 tator of their interview, but only remained book in hand 
 in my seat at the window. You may be sure I compre- 
 hended nothing printed upon the page before me. Not 
 many minutes elapsed after Chapin came forth and rode 
 away, ere the sheriff dropped in upon us. The moment 
 he made his appearance, I saw, by the twinkle in his eye, 
 he had pleasant intelligence to communicate. Glancing 
 around to see that we were alone, he cast himself into a 
 chair, giving vent to a gratified chuckle. 'We have 
 them at last,' said he, ' thanks to the intelligence of the 
 boy the doctor employs to wait upon him, and whom I 
 frightened and bribed into playing the spy. A nice plot 
 of robbery has just been concocted by the two worthies 
 closeted up yonder. Old Seth Jones to-day received a
 
 180 The Romance of a Western Trij>> 
 
 payment upon the farm he sold Thompson, and will take 
 it to Pollard whose place he has purchased; having to 
 travel some twenty miles of bad road, it will be dark 
 before he can reach his destination, and Chapin and 
 "Wentworth are intent upon relieving him of his money; 
 the rocky gully between Harrison's and Thompson's is 
 the point selected for operations; and I, with my men, 
 shall take care to be there in time to have a hand in the 
 game.' 
 
 " That was an anxious evening for me. I sat with 
 Helen and her father until after ten, and, despite the 
 efforts we all made, the conversation languished. I saw 
 she felt a weight upon her that she could not cast off. 
 As I gazed upon her face, while she bent over some fem- 
 inine employment, I could perceive the great change 
 that had been wrought in her in the few weeks I had 
 known her. She had grown thin and pale, and a look of 
 suffering had taken the place of one of cheerfulness. I 
 asked myself if it could be that I had awakened her 
 love, and that she had discovered this fact and allowed 
 her betrothment to Wentworth to eat like a canker at 
 her heart. I felt an almost irresistible desire to tell her 
 how dear she was to me, and that if she returned my 
 affection, all would be well with us. By a powerful 
 effort, however, I choked back the words that trembled 
 on my lips, and retired to my chamber, where I alter- 
 nately paced the floor and sat by the open window until 
 near morning. The night was intensely dark, and I 
 could distinguish only the outline of the trees upon the
 
 The Romance of a Western Trip. 181 
 
 lawn. It was three o'clock, and a faint streak of light 
 began to illumine the eastern horizon, when I at last 
 heard the tramp of horses upon the bridge that crossed 
 the stream down the valley. I could control my impa- 
 tience no longer, and, opening my door, descended the 
 stairs with rapid feet, but the judge fully dressed was 
 before me in the hall, proving that he, too, like myself, 
 had impatiently awaited news of the result of the sher- 
 iff's ambuscade. We hurried down the street, and, in 
 the dull light of the dawning day, met a party of six 
 men having Hugh Chapin in charge. He was securely 
 bound, and riding upon a horse in the midst of his cap- 
 tors. I noted the absence of "Wentworth at once, and 
 felt the most bitter disappointment, but soon learned the 
 occasion of it. In an attempt to escape, he had been 
 shot through the head, and was then lying dead at a 
 farm-house near the scene of action. 
 
 " I can now condense into a few sentences what more I 
 have to relate. On being confronted with me, Chapin 
 made a full confession of his own and "Went worth's 
 crime. It was he who struck me upon the head as I 
 fired at his companion, and, after binding up "Went- 
 worth's wound, he robbed and then conveyed me to a 
 lonely part of the stream and cast me in; my long in- 
 sensibility had cheated them into the belief of my death. 
 
 " Helen made no pretext of regret at the awful judg- 
 ment that had overtaken her betrothed; on the contra- 
 iy. her face now wears an expression of repose which 
 the dullest observer could not fail to perceive. Need I 
 16*
 
 1 82 The Romance of a Western Trip. 
 
 add that I had a long conversation with her last night 
 during which she acknowledged her affection for me, 
 and promised to be my wife provided her father sanc- 
 tioned our wishes. The judge has since listened to my 
 petition with a pleased smile, and answered that in 
 due time we should be made happy. 
 
 " When our nuptials are performed, then will end my 
 western trip and its attending romance."
 
 THE TWO GHOSTS OF NEW LONDON 
 TURNPIKE. 
 
 (183)

 
 THE TWO GHOSTS 
 
 or 
 
 NEW LONDON TURNPIKE. 
 
 HEBE is a certain ancient and time-honored in- 
 stitution, which, in the advancement of recent 
 discoveries and the march of modern improve- 
 ments, seems destined soon to pass from the use, 
 and then, in natural sequence, from the memories 
 of mankind. For even the highest type of civilization 
 is prone to ingratitude, and drops all thoughts of its best 
 agencies as soon as it has outlived its absolute need of 
 them. Towards this Lethean current, whose lazy waters 
 glide so silently and yet so resistlessly along the bor- 
 ders of the Past, gradually undermining and crumbling 
 away the ancient landmarks and the venerable institu- 
 tions known and loved of the former generations, the 
 whale-ships are already drifting. 
 
 For year by year, as they set sail with their hardy 
 crews, every succeeding voyage took them nearer to the 
 court of the Ice King, the chill of his breath grew 
 deadlier, and the invasion of his dominions more desper- 
 ate. But, lo ! when Jack Tar was almost at his wit's 
 end, a cry arose upon the prairie, and the disciples of 
 
 (185)
 
 1 86 The two Ghosts of 
 
 commerce dropped their harpoons and left their nets to 
 follow the guidance of the new revelation. Jets of ole- 
 aginous wealth sprang and spirted, and blessed was he 
 whose dish was right-side-up in this new rain of pecuni- 
 ary porridge. Instead of the old launchings and weigh- 
 ings of anchors, came the embarkation of all sorts and 
 sizes of solid and fancy craft on the inviting sea of spec- 
 ulation, and men ran hither and thither, outrivalling 
 the tales of the bygone voyagers, by stories of vast 
 fortunes made in a day, and of shipwrecks as sad as any 
 on the ocean. And so, in place of dingy casks and creak- 
 ing cordage and watery perils, there sprang up the reign 
 of pipes and drills, and for the laden ships, black and oozy 
 with their slippery cargo, we began to have long trains of 
 bright blue tanks speeding over all our western railways; 
 and the whaling vessels, with their smooth, tapering sides, 
 and blowsy crews, and complicated mysteries of rigging, 
 seem already like forsaken hulks, hopelessly stranded 
 upon the shores of antiquity. 
 
 But all this belongs to the Present, and any such 
 prophecy uttered in the days with which our story has 
 to do would have been regarded as the wildest of rav- 
 ings. For then the whale-ship was a reality and a 
 power, the terror of all mothers of wayward boys, and 
 the general resort of reckless runaways and prodigals. 
 The thought that it could ever be superseded by any 
 undiscovered agency had not yet made its way into the 
 heads of even the sage prognosticates who studied the 
 prophets and the apocalypse, and were able to dispose of
 
 New London Turnpike. 187 
 
 all the beasts and dragons, and to assign them appropri- 
 ate places in the future, with the utmost certainty and 
 satisfaction. 
 
 It is certain that no such forebodings startled the 
 complacency of two young men who sat, in the gathering 
 twilight of a mild spring evening, on a fragment of 
 drift-wood in a little cove of Uew London harbor, with 
 the waves sweeping up almost to their feet, and the 
 western sky still flushed with the departing glory of 
 sunset. 
 
 They were a stout, bronzed, muscular couple, loosely 
 clad in the common sailor-suits of the period, and both 
 with the shrewd, resolute cast of countenance that dis- 
 tinguished the irrepressible Yankee then no less than 
 now. The darker of the two was the more attractive, 
 for he had the jolly twinkling eye, and gayly infectious 
 air that goes with the high animal temperament, and 
 always carries a bracing tonic with it like the sea- 
 breeze. Wherever John Avery came, all the evil spir- 
 its of dulness and mopes and blues, that conspire so 
 fearfully for the misery of mankind, had to give way, 
 and one burst of his spontaneous merriment would ex- 
 orcise the whole uncanny troop. John was a born sail- 
 or, with all the dashing frankness, and generous, hearty 
 temper characteristic of the class, and not deficient in 
 the faculty for getting into scrapes that is also an invari- 
 able endowment of his prototypes. 
 
 The other was a less open face, sharper in its outlines, 
 and with more angles than curves. Had it been less
 
 1 88 The tivo Ghosts of 
 
 kindly, it might have been the face of a rascal, and yet 
 an artist could easily have idealized it into that of a 
 hero. For all these variations and contrasts of charac- 
 teristic expression, that have such influence among us, 
 are, after all, wonderfully slight affairs, and a few touch- 
 es either way, upon the vast majority of faces, would 
 give a seraph or a demon at the shortest notice. The 
 bright, plump countenance of Jack was an open book, 
 known and read of all men, while that of his cousin 
 Philo was a study far more perplexing, and in the end 
 less satisfactory. But the conversation of the two was 
 sufficiently plain. 
 
 " Sails on Thursday, does she, Phil ? " said the cheerful 
 voice of John as his practised eye sought out a certain 
 ship from among the crowd of vessels in the harbor. 
 
 " All hands aboard at nine o'clock's the order," re- 
 plied Philo, taking off his cap, and turning his face to the 
 wind. 
 
 " And the Sally Ann don't sail till Saturday. I say 
 Phil, old fellow, I wish we were going together," 
 cried John with one of his bursts. 
 
 "It's better as 'tis," said Philo, thoughtfully. " There's 
 a better chance for one of us to come back, you know, 
 than if we were in the same ship." 
 
 " ' Come bacfc.' Why, of course we shall come back, 
 that is, I hope so, both of us. That wasn't what I 
 meant. I'd like you for a shipmate, that's all," was the 
 eager response. 
 
 " Yes, I understand," answered Philo. " We shan't
 
 New London Turnpike. 189 
 
 both come home, of course; but there's hopes for both of 
 us, and a pretty strong chance for one of us at least." 
 
 And then a seriousness fell upon the cousins, and for 
 many minutes they sat and watched the tide creeping 
 up to them like the lapping, hungry tongue of some slow 
 monster, thinking such thoughts as will sometimes come 
 unbidden to the heart of youth, and become more and 
 more intrusive and importunate as we grow older. 
 
 These boys were offshoots of a sturdy Puritan stock, 
 and the pluck and backbone of their ancestry suffered 
 no degeneracy in them. John had been an orphan from 
 infancy, and had grown up in an atmosphere of loving 
 kindness and tender mercy under the auspices of his 
 Aunt Betsy, Philo's mother. She it was, who, in view 
 of his orphanage, had winked at his boyish misdemean- 
 ors, indulged his naturally gay disposition in every way 
 that her strict and somewhat barren orthodoxy allowed, 
 and when his sea-going propensities could no longer be 
 controlled by the mild influences of her molasses gin- 
 gerbread and sweet cider, she had made him a liberal 
 outfit of flannel shirts and blue mixed hose, and, tucking 
 a Bible into the corner of his chest, bade him God-speed 
 on his first voyage. 
 
 It was with some surprise that she saw him come 
 back from a three months' cruise, with no more serious 
 damage than a scar across his forehead ; but still she felt 
 reproached at the sight of it, and on Jack's next start 
 rectified her previous neglect, by sending Philo along 
 with him in the capacity of mentor and protector, an 
 17
 
 190 The two Ghosts of 
 
 office which she, in the devotion of her heart, would 
 motet joyfully have undertaken herself if the art and 
 practice of navigation could have been adapted so as 
 to admit of the services of an elderly lady. But becom- 
 ing convinced of the utter impracticability of this plan, she 
 wisely settled herself down to be comfortable with tea- 
 drinking and knitting-work, with great confidence in 
 Philo's sobriety and force of character, as applied to pre- 
 serve her darling Jack from harm; for Aunt Betsy 
 like many other excellent people, was not free from "fa- 
 voritism, and her adopted son was the child of her affec- 
 tions, while Philo had the secondary place, and was ex- 
 pected to consider it his highest happiness to fiddle for 
 Jack's dancing, and otherwise to hold the candle in a 
 general way for the benefit and pleasure of that superior 
 being. Had Jack been less jolly and generous, or Philo 
 less amiable and forbearing, this maternal arrangement 
 would have been a fruitful source of jealousy and con- 
 tention; but the two natures were so fortunately bal- 
 anced that even the one-sided weight of Aunt Betsy's 
 partiality worked no such derangement of the family 
 peace, as might have been supposed. The boys had 
 made three short voyages together, and were now about 
 shipping for their first long absence in different Vessels 
 only because Philo's superior education and business 
 aptitude qualified him for the position of supercargo, 
 which had been offered him on board the Skylark. 
 
 Philo was already developing the great Yankee trait 
 of penny -catching, for even then he had saved quite a
 
 New London Turnpike. 191 
 
 pretty sum out of the very moderate pay of a foremast 
 man in those times, and this, in addition to his patrimo- 
 nial inheritance of a few hundred dollars, made a nice 
 nest-egg for the fortune that he hoped to realize in late 
 life. Jack, too, had his property interest, for he had just 
 come to man's estate in the eye of the law, and his little 
 property, carefully hoarded, and with its due interest 
 had been, only the day previous, paid into his hands in 
 good gold, accompanied by much sound advice and the 
 warmest good wishes from his benignant guardian, 
 'Squire Tupper, who, thanks to Aunt Betsy's interposi- 
 tion had found him the most dutiful and least trouble- 
 some of wards. 
 
 Philo renewed the conversation by inquiring whether 
 Jack had thought of any particular mode of investment, 
 and stating his own intention of purchasing an interest 
 in the Skylark, if on his return it should appear ad- 
 visable. But the former topic appeared to push itself 
 uneasily uppermost, and he soon came abruptly back 
 to it, 
 
 "I shall do that thing if I live to see home again; 
 and, if anything should happen that I don't, I want my 
 money to go to you, Jack, except half the income, and 
 that I want to have settled on mother as long as she 
 lives." 
 
 " You'd better say all the income, and the principal 
 too, for that matter, Phil," cried the hearty Jack, with 
 a little break in his voice at the last words. 
 
 " No," replied the cousin, soberly. " There's enough 
 
 .
 
 192 The two Ghosts of 
 
 besides to keep the old lady comfortable as long as she 
 lives, and more would only worry her. If she gets 
 something to show that I didn't forget her, it'll be better 
 than if she had it all to take care of; and she'll be just 
 as well suited to have it go to you." 
 
 " But think of my getting what Aunt Betsy ought to 
 have," remonstrated Jack, sturdily. 
 
 " It's best," said Philo. 
 
 " And to hear you talk as if you was bound straight 
 for Davy Jones' locker," pursued Jack. 
 
 " I shan't go any straighter for talking about it, as I 
 know of," answered Philo, looking steadily towards the 
 dim horizon as if his fate lay somewhere between the 
 water and the sky. 
 
 " Well, then," shouted the impulsive Jack, " if it must 
 be so, I'm glad I can match you at the other end of the 
 same rope. You're as likely to come home as I am, 
 and, if I'm never heard from, all I've got shall go to 
 you." 
 
 " Then we'd better make our wills in form, if that's 
 your wish," said Philo, rising from the log. 
 
 "We'll make all fast to-morrow," remarked Jack, 
 cheerfully ; " though it makes one feel queer to be doing 
 such business at our age." 
 
 " It can't hurt anything; and we're no more likely to 
 meet with bad luck for having things in ship-shape," re- 
 plied Philo, as they walked up towards the little town, 
 whose twinkling lights winked like fireflies out of the 
 darkness. 
 
 I
 
 New London Turnpike. 193 
 
 "Let's do it to-night, and have it over," exclaimed 
 Jack, who found an unpleasant creeping sensation gain- 
 ing upon him as he dwelt on the subject. 
 
 " Well," said Philo. 
 
 The cousins turned into the main street of the village, 
 now a busy mart of business, but in those days broad 
 and grassy, with a row of respectable gambrel-roofed 
 houses, each with its liberal garden at the side. Pre- 
 eminent in respectability was the abode of 'Squire Tup- 
 per, with its large, clean yard, small, patchwork-looking 
 windows, and ponderous brass knocker, which disclosed 
 the terrific head of some nondescript animal in most 
 menacing attitude. Upon this brazen effigy Jack 
 sounded a vigorous rap, since 'Squire Tupper was the 
 prime magnate and authority of the small town, in all' 
 matters requiring legal adjustment; and any well-in- 
 structed resident would as soon have thought of hav- 
 ing a funeral without the minister as of making a will 
 without the advice of the 'squire. . 
 
 The summons was answered by a pretty blonde girl, 
 dressed in the nicest of blue stuff gowns, the whitest of 
 muslin tuckers, and with her pretty feet displayed to 
 advantage by fine clocked stockings and neat morocco 
 shoes. All these little matters and her dainty air gave 
 her the appear*ance of a petted kitten, or, rather, of some 
 small, ornamental image, made of cream candy, and 
 kept in a Chinese doll-house. 
 
 She turned rosy at sight of Jack, who came instantly 
 out of his solemn mood, and, in the frank, saucy way 
 17*
 
 1 94 The two Ghosts of 
 
 habitual to him, swung his arm around the neat waist, 
 and, spite of some tiny remonstrances and vain struggles, 
 planted a big sailor kiss right in the centre of the de- 
 mure mouth. All this was natural enough; for, besides 
 being the 'squire's ward and connected in that sort of 
 cousinhood which extends to the forty-ninth degree of 
 consanguinity, Jack had now regularly " kept company " 
 with Molly for several months, and all his Sunday 
 nights on shore were piously devoted to " settin' up " 
 with her in the prim, sanded best parlor, where it is 
 not to be supposed that he abstained totally from such 
 " refreshment " as Mr. Sam Weller was accustomed to 
 indulge when opportunity offered. 
 
 But his demonstrativeness served to discompose Mol- 
 ly's ladyhood on this occasion; and the presence of 
 Philo with his business-like face added so much scandal 
 that she disengaged herself as quickly as possible from 
 Jack's audacious grasp, and, with such dignity as a 
 white kitten might assume in the presence of two in- 
 trusive pups, ushered them into the family "keepin'- 
 room," and withdrew, as if she wished it understood that 
 she washed her hands of them and their kind from that 
 time forth. But Jack slipped out after her, and prob- 
 ably made peace; for they returned together, he very 
 brisk and shining, and she blushing like Aurora. 
 
 Philo, however, meant business, and said as much in 
 plain terms, that set Miss Molly into a perfect maze of 
 conjecture as she went to call the 'squire. Her only so- 
 lution of the mystery was that Jack had now come for
 
 New London Turnpike. 195 
 
 the momentous pop, toward which events had been 
 tending ; and that Philo had accompanied him in the char- 
 acter of second. She felt a little piqued that she had 
 not been able to bring him to the point herself; but then 
 it was certainly very straightforward in him to come 
 right to her father in that way; and so the little lady 
 rushed out to the wood-pile in a perfect flutter of deli- 
 cious perplexity, and imparted the fact that the two 
 young men had called on business, with such decided em- 
 phasis that the 'squire immediately took the cue, and pre- 
 pared himself to be especially benignant and paternal. 
 
 Relieved of Molly's inspiring presence, Jack felt all 
 the solemnity of the affair returning upon him, and, as is 
 usual with these strong, mercurial natures, it loomed be- 
 fore him more and more grim and ghastly, till, by the time 
 that the 'squire made his appearance, he had become al- 
 most persuaded that his last hour was really approach- 
 ing. This state of mind imparted to his countenance an 
 expression of such touching melancholy as made the 
 old gentleman take him for the most despairing of lovers, 
 and wrought upon his sympathies amazingly. 
 
 'Squire Tupper was the embodiment of magisterial 
 dignity, owlish wisdom, and universal benevolence. 
 With a fine, showy person that was in itself the guaran- 
 ty of unimpeachable respectability, he had gone on in 
 life, and come to hold the position of an oracle; not on 
 account of anything he ever said, but because of a gen- 
 eral way that he had of looking as if he could on all occa- 
 sions say a great deal if he chose, which is a sure way to
 
 
 196 The i-ssv Gkosls of 
 
 the disBmetiam of being iMJiiiml mmailililj 
 weB4nmtmed, though it is one that is greatly negfecsed 
 cfbtte years. The wo^ laughs at witty people, and 
 despises them; and {Square Tupper was a bright exam- 
 pfe of the truth that it takes a thoroughly don man to 
 be profandly respected. 
 
 He now sainted the cousins with grare urbanity, and 
 dcfibtxateiy placed hfe stately fonn in the arm-diair, 
 taking a fresh coat of tobacco as a ptdmunazy to bust- 
 eas. IT MoCy h*d enoosh of mother ETC about her to 
 cavse her to peep ad listen behind the door, we don't 
 know as it umtxnm n&. We don't say she did; bat 
 mould be slow to take the responsibility of declaring 
 that she didn't. Toong ladies, who may chance to pe- 
 xro this TOiacKKis history, are at liberty to decide this 
 pcint according to their own estimate of the temptation. 
 and the amagt *"" power of resistance. 
 
 Jack plunged desperately into the middle of the sob- 
 jegi^aad. them tried to awmt oat towaid the atoodoctioii. 
 
 ~ We thos^hl we'd atop fax sir, this erening. as we're 
 made up our minds to do A certain thing; and it seemed 
 as if we I mean I felt as if I should like to have it 
 done, and <mr with." 
 
 * I see, I see," replied the 'squire, with the utmost con- 
 for Jack's < inlai i HHiir ni t and the delicate 
 
 natore of his ""** -TonVe spoken to MoDy about 
 it, I suppose ? be added, encoungingiy. 
 K Why, no. Didn't think it was worth white, m jam
 
 Nem London Turnpike. 1917 
 
 "Ah, I see! Jes* so, jaf BO ! Very thoughtful in 
 yon, Jack, very, indeed. 77 The 'squire paused, and 
 took a pinch of snuff, nodding Ms satisfaction, and pro- 
 ceeded: tt If s highly gratifying to me, Jack, to see you 
 so thoughtful as to come to me first on this business; 
 though it isn't what all young men would do. Fm gmd 
 to see that you respect the parental relation, and re- 
 spect my feenugs, though you've no parents of your 
 own; stfll you've had an exrritent hgmg up by your 
 Aunt Betsy, and Fve tried, in my humble way, to do 
 what I could." (Graceful self-abasement w one of tine 
 'squire's strong points.) And now I say you've acted 
 just right, because I am better capable of judging what 
 is for Molly's good than she can be herself; and, of 
 course, Fm the person to be first consulted: and ifs 
 most creditable and gratifying" 
 
 "Why, it isn't about Matty, at aH!" cried Jack in 
 bewilderment. 
 
 O happy, doting pride of fatherhood ! What a fall- 
 ing off was there, and what bbmknew, followed by con- 
 fusion, overspread 'Squire Tupperfr countruaurr, as the 
 nature of his blander and its extreme awkwardness be- 
 came apparent to his puzzled faculties. 
 
 BTo no certainly not not inthe kast !" gasped 
 be, catching after his dignity, as a man dimming grasps 
 at straws. 
 
 "We came to see if you could attend to making out 
 our witts, tikis evening, said Phikx 
 
 The 'squire looked from one to tine other with
 
 198 The two Ghosts of 
 
 dazed incredulity that both the young men applied 
 themselves to explanations which brought his senses 
 back into the world of facts. 
 
 " Yes, yes, certainly, very creditable and prudent 
 in you to wish to make things all snug before you go. 
 Excellent idea; though you're both rather youngish to 
 be doing such business. Still it's highly gratifying to 
 see you take it up in this way, certainly, just let me 
 get the materials." And the 'squire plunged with great 
 eagerness into the subject, briskly opening an old-fash- 
 ioned secretary, and setting out upon the table a heavy 
 stone inkstand, a sand-box, some large sheets of paper, 
 and a bunch of quills ; and then, being quite restored to 
 his accustomed equilibrium, begged them in the most 
 impressive magisterial manner, to state their wishes, and 
 commenced making his pen, while Philo explained the 
 subject-matter of the conversation previousty recorded. 
 
 " I see, I see I " said the 'squire, deliberately, when he 
 had elaborated the point of the quill, and tried it repeat- 
 edly on his thumb-nail. And, without further ado, he 
 drew his chair to the table, and headed the page in a 
 large, round hand: " The Last Will and Testament of 
 Philo Avery; " following it up with the regular formula 
 for such cases made and provided. 
 
 " In the name of God, Amen. 
 
 " I, Philo Avery, of the town of I^ew London and 
 state of Connecticut, being of sound mind and memory, 
 and considering the uncertainty of this frail and transi- 
 tory life, do, therefore, make, advise, publish, and declare 
 this to be my last will and testament," etc.
 
 New London Turn-pike. 199 
 
 Scratch scratch, went the 'squire's pen, interrupted 
 only by occasional dips into the ink, while the two testa- 
 tors sat and looked on in unwinking silence, and the 
 tall candles flared and sputtered as their sooty wicks 
 dropped down into the tallow. Hardly had this hap- 
 pened when Molly tripped shyly into the room, bringing 
 a pair of silver snuffers on a little tray, and with one 
 dexterous nip relieved each smoking luminary of its in- 
 cumbrance, at the same moment casting her demure 
 eyes upon the page which her father was now covering 
 with sand. If she was not ignorant of the old gentle- 
 man's palpable "blunder (and remember the narrator 
 takes no responsibility on that point), she was certainly 
 very innocent and unconscious, and, as Jack looked at 
 her, he anathematized his own stupidity in not taking the 
 opportunity which the 'squire had so temptingly opened 
 for him, and determined that he would rectify the omis- 
 sion spedflily. 
 
 Meanwhile, the quill travelled over another broad 
 page, and the documents were ready for the signatures. 
 And then it was necessary that Molly and the hired- 
 man should be called in as witnesses, and the former made 
 very wide eyes of wonderment (little budget of deceit !) 
 when she learned the nature of the papers, and wrote her 
 name in a tiny, cramped hand, with many little quirks 
 like the legs of spiders, and this was supplemented by 
 the laborious autograph of Silas Plumb, the teamster, a 
 young man of limited education and bushy hair. 
 
 And when all this was done, the cousins exchanged
 
 2OO The two Ghosts of 
 
 the wills, and tucked them into their respective side- 
 pockets, feeling greatly relieved, and the 'squire, after re- 
 ceiving his fee in a benevolent, deprecating manner, as 
 if it was quite a trial to bis feelings, but must be under- 
 gone as a duty, brought .jut some excellent port wine, 
 and pledged them both in liberal glasses, with wishes 
 for their prosperous voyage and safe return. And at 
 the mention of this sorrowful topic, poor Molly's spirits 
 suffered such charming timid depression, and were af- 
 fected to such a degree that when Philo took leave, it 
 was necessary for Jack to lag behind, and finally allow 
 him to go away alone, since nothing else would serve to 
 restore the languishing damsel to comparative cheerful- 
 ness. At this interval of time, and without the advan- 
 tage of being an eye-witness, it would be a vain attempt 
 for anybody to undertake a minute account of how, 
 standing in the low " stoop," with its little round posts 
 like drumsticks, and huge tubs of thrifty, rough-leaved 
 plants, Molly made herself perfectly irresistible with 
 her shy regrets, and how, when her grief and apprehen- 
 sion at once welled up from her heart to her face, in the 
 midst of bashful palpitations and broken sobs, her 
 proud little head wilted weakly over on Jack's shoulder, 
 and she begged him not to go sail-ail-ailing away, and 
 be drownd-ed-ed and have that horrid old will-ill-ill 
 for his sole memento. Neither would it be easy to por- 
 tray how Jack soothed and petted, with all the little en- 
 dearments that are such delightful realities for the mo- 
 jnent, but so silly a,nd absurd to remember, and finally,
 
 New London Turnpike. 201 
 
 when nothing else would answer, committed himself 
 past all remedy, as what man could help doing, with 
 such a dainty little figure leaning close, and the sweetest 
 of mournful faces buried in his collar. And then, there 
 were more tears and kisses, and at the end a long, quiet 
 talk of all that should be realized when that one voyage 
 was over, and he should be ready to resign his sea-far- 
 ing life. 
 
 At last Jack tore himself away from all these en- 
 chantments, and rushed home for a couple of hours of 
 delicious dreamy tumbling about in bed before day- 
 light, which seemed to come much sooner than he had 
 calculated, and aroused him to complete his preparations 
 for departure. 
 
 Everybody knows what a queer, altered aspect cer- 
 tain actions and feelings take after one night, and the 
 dawning of the clear, practical light of the next day. 
 Ideas that have seemed most urgent and actual will at 
 such times appear extremely unreal and visionary, and 
 be quite eclipsed in interest by the trifles that come in 
 between and demand immediate attention. Jack found 
 it so, in the hurry and bustle of the next day, what with 
 the preparations for sailing, and all the little matters 
 that such a start involves. The doings of the previous 
 night seemed quite distant and foreign to his own per- 
 sonality; and it needed the big-folded document, with 
 its formal phraseology and crisp rattle, to convince him 
 that the acts of the evening before had not been a rather 
 memorable dream. Once, in the course of the day, he 
 
 18
 
 2O2 The two Ghosts of 
 
 took out the will, read it hastily over, and then tucked it 
 away in a little brass-bound box, that answered for him 
 the same purpose that a Herring's Patent does for pru- 
 dent young men of the present day. 
 
 But however it might be about the wills, and the 
 chances that the Great Reaper should overtake either of 
 the cousins before the return-voyage, Molly was a pres- 
 ent and delightful reality ; and that very evening Jack 
 made her another visit, justified 'Squire Tupper's pre- 
 sumption of the former occasion, and amid Molly's tears 
 and kisses, and big sighs and little sobs, wished most 
 heartily that the Sally Ann had made her cruise, and 
 that the future programme was ready to be carried into 
 effect. But then, he might be lucky enough to pay for 
 waiting; and if anything should happen to Philo in the 
 interval, of course, he hoped there wouldn't, poor fel- 
 low; but accidents will happen, and if anything so sad 
 should occur, why, then he would be in a position to 
 keep Molly in the style she deserved and was accustomed 
 to; and to buy out a share in some nice little craft, that 
 should bring home to them treasures as rich, after their 
 kind, as those that the ships of Tarshish brought to 
 King Solomon. But all this was mere conjecture, an,d 
 Jack renounced it with a feeling of reproach for having 
 indulged it even for a moment. 
 
 The next day the Skylark sailed, Philo starting away 
 from the old house with his chest on a wheelbarrow, and 
 leaving Aunt Betsy on the door-step, with her lips 
 pressed very tight, and all the grim fatalism of her relig-
 
 New London Turnpike. 203 
 
 lous faith making stern struggle against the natural 
 motherly instincts of her heart. For she did love 
 Philo; and even the reflection that he wasn't going to 
 wait upon Jack, according to his established usage, was 
 lost in genuine grief for his departure. 
 
 Jack rowed out to the ship with him; and it would be 
 doing both an injustice to ask whether the cordial re- 
 grets of their separation were mingled with any remem- 
 brance on the part of either, that in case they should 
 never meet again, one of them would be a few hundred 
 dollars richer for the death of the other. 
 
 On the morning of May 5th, 1805, the Sally Ann 
 sailed out of New London harbor. On the evening of 
 September 12th, 1808, she dropped anchor in the very 
 spot which she had left three years and four months be- 
 fore. 
 
 The first object, aside from the familiar shore, that 
 met Jack's recognition, as they sailed up the bay, was 
 the ship Skylark, arrived just six weeks previously, and 
 the first man he saw, as he stepped on land, was his 
 Cousin Philo. There could hardly have been a more cor- 
 dial greeting than that which the bystanders witnessed; 
 and yet a close look into the heart of each might have 
 disclosed a shade of something strangely inconsistent 
 with the outward semblance of happiness that both 
 wore. 
 
 For three years is a long time for some thoughts and 
 impulses to mature in, and day after day out at sea, with
 
 204 The two Ghosts of 
 
 
 
 only the monotony of the ever-undulating waves, and 
 the easily exhausted resources of variety to be found on 
 shipboard, give great opportunity for brooding, and 
 such speculations as come naturally to people who are idle 
 and isolated. Seeds of the devil's planting possess a pecu- 
 liarly vital and fructifying property and are sure to come 
 to maturity sooner or later. One can easily imagine the 
 thoughts that might have come to these two young men 
 in the long, solitary watches, come perhaps like sugges- 
 tions from the world outside, wafted on the wings of the 
 wind, or caught up in chance hints and scraps of sailor talk, 
 but coming nevertheless straight from the God of mam- 
 mon, and, with their slow canker working a steady and 
 sure corruption. And yet, neither had probably ever al- 
 lowed these thoughts to take any such positive form as 
 to be capable of recognition. They were always, even 
 in the moments of their strongest domination, veiled in 
 some perfectly innocent mental expression, such as if 
 anything should happen, or supposing such an affliction, 
 meditations which the most sensitive conscience could 
 not possibly challenge, but which had a way of creeping 
 in upon the minds of these two far oftener than they 
 would have done, but for the existence of the wills. 
 
 Philo had an inborn love of lucre that was strong 
 enough to give spice and fascination to these ponderings 
 of possibilities, while Jack was constantly under the 
 stimulus of his fondness for Molly, and desire to make a 
 handsome provision for her. And by these means, this 
 indefinite if, acknowledged at first only as a remote and
 
 New London Turnpike. 205 
 
 dreaded contingency, gradually took to itself substance, 
 and began to figure in the plans and projects of each as 
 if it were almost a positive certainty. Always, however, 
 with the proviso that it was a very sad possibility, to be de- 
 voutly deplored and hoped against, but still accepted and 
 treated as an actuality. And such an effectual devil- 
 trap did this if prove to be, that this meeting of the two 
 cousins was, in the hidden consciousness of each, in the 
 nature of an unexpected shock that made a sudden scat- 
 tering of many schemes and purposes, all based, to a 
 great extent upon that wicked and fallacious if. And 
 while all this was lurking under the demonstrative 
 warmth and gladness of their greeting, probably no 
 greater surprise nor horror could have befallen either 
 than to have had the veil of his self-deception for one 
 moment lifted, and to have had a single glimpse at the 
 truth within him, or a single intimation of the lives that 
 they two should lead through the next half century 
 under the evil consciousness of that ever impending if. 
 
 But nothing of this supernatural character befell 
 them, and after a few warm greetings among the crowd 
 on the pier, Jack hastened toward the town. There 
 were some changes in the familiar streets; buildings 
 newly built or altered, signs changed, and a barber's 
 pole freshly painted. All these he observed carefully 
 as he walked on. When he came in sight of 'Squire 
 Tapper's, the radiant, blushing face of Molly disclosed 
 itself for an instant at the window, and speedily reap- 
 peared in a flutter of delicious expectancy at the half- 
 18*
 
 206 The two Ghosts of 
 
 open door, for the news of the arrival was already all 
 over town. She gave a series of little screams as Jack, 
 with such a big black beard, and so very brown, came up 
 and sainted her with a strong bearish hug and a gener- 
 al smell of whale-oil, 
 
 For Jack was considerably altered by reason of a cer- 
 tain manly reticence that seemed to have grown on 
 with his whiskers, in place of the old boyish dash and 
 frankness. Molly had become steady and womanly, loo, 
 and now saw with vast pride the dignified way in which 
 Jack deported himself, how he met the 'squire's gra- 
 cious welcome with equal ease and affability, and talked 
 of his voyage and its adventures in such a quiet, modest 
 way as showed him to be every inch a hero. And when, 
 after a short stay, he spoke of Aunt Betsy, and would 
 not prolong her waiting, Molly was quite resigned to let 
 him go, contenting herself with dwelling upon his im- 
 proved looks, and indulging in charming little maidenly 
 reveries that centred in the anticipated joys and splen- 
 dors of a certain day which she had settled in her own 
 mind as not far distant. Alas, Molly ! Indulge your 
 reveries, poor girL Dream on, and let your dreams be 
 sweet. Play over and over in anticipation your pretty 
 little drama of white dresses and bridesmaids and wed- 
 ding-cake, and make it all as gay as possible, for little 
 else shall you have by way of reward for your many 
 months of constancy to Jack A very, save his occasional 
 attentions and the satisfaction of being for years the 
 wonder and mystery of all the gossips in town. Yes;
 
 NC-JJ London Turn-pike. 207 
 
 for years. It may as well be said now as any other 
 time. The day when Molly's dreams should be realized 
 withdrew itself from time to time, and at length took 
 up its permanent position in the distant horizon of un- 
 certainty. "Colts grew horses, beards turned gray," 
 but Molly Tupper was not merged in Molly Avery, 
 and there were no prospects of that consummation more 
 than had appeared for the last well we .wont say 
 how many years. For tender and devoted as Jack was 
 for a long time, there was a change in him, that brought 
 something of constraint and reserve between them, and, 
 with all her delicate feminine tact, she could never lead 
 him into any direct avowal of his wishes on the subject. 
 And since Molly was the very paragon of maidenly 
 modesty and trusting devotion, she came to indulge the 
 conviction that Jack knew best^ and had some wise 
 though inscrutable reason for delaying matters. And 
 in time, even those indefatigables, the village gossips, 
 wearied of wondering and surmising, at their perennial 
 tea-parties, and the whole thing settled down into a dis- 
 couraging calm. 
 
 And yet Jack had no design of doing an injustice. 
 He was really fond of Molly, and fully intended to 
 marry her. But for that ever-present if, and the com- 
 plications it involved, the event would have taken place 
 in due time. His reflections sometimes took a very 
 painful turn, as he pondered the subject. Here was this 
 beautiful, affectionate girl, to whom he had long been 
 pledged, waiting his time with all the truth and con-
 
 
 208 The two Ghosts of 
 
 stancy of her loving nature. And here he was, living a 
 dreary and almost hopeless bachelor life, and standing 
 in the way of any advantageous match which might be 
 otherwise open for her acceptance. But, in case of his 
 marriage, the will arrangement must be broken up, and 
 he should have the mortification of making that sugges- 
 tion to Philo; which seemed an almost impossible thing 
 to do, for not a word with reference to it had ever passed 
 the lips of either since the night when the agreement 
 was made, and both had come to regard it with some- 
 thing like a superstitious dread, as a theme whose dis- 
 cussion might portend some fatal result. 
 
 And then, again, thought Jack, life was such an 
 uncertainty, and a few months of waiting might make a 
 vast difference. Suppose, in his foolish haste, he should 
 throw up the will arrangement, and marry Molly, and 
 it should turn out, after all, that a little delay would 
 have improved their condition so much. Though life 
 insurance was still unknown, and its cool calculations 
 and scientific averages would have been then regarded 
 as the extreme of impiety, and its risks as a wicked 
 tempting of Providence, Jack had made out in his own 
 mind a tolerably accurate table of averages, which 
 showed quite conclusively against his cousin's chances 
 for longevity. It is hardly to be supposed that Philo 
 had neglected the same satisfactory proceeding, or that 
 his results were very different. 
 
 And thus this corrupting temptation, that is the root 
 of all evil, had crept upon these two noble young hearts
 
 New London Turnpike. 209 
 
 distorting and defiling them with its slow taint. And 
 even now, either of them might truthfully have ques- 
 tioned, 
 
 " What shall I be at fifty, 
 
 If nature keeps me alive, 
 If life is so cold and bitter, 
 When I am but twenty-five ? " 
 
 It would be too dreary a task to follow them year by 
 year. Let us make leaps and take glimpses at them by 
 intervals. 
 
 Twenty-five. "What we have seen. 
 
 Thirty. Aunt Betsy, weak and childish for many 
 months, has gone to her long home, with a final admoni- 
 tion to Philo that he must make Jack the object of his 
 best watch and care for the entire period of his natural 
 life. 
 
 Molly is still pretty, though a little thin and with 
 a perceptible sharpening of the elbows. Her color is 
 not quite so high, nor her figure so plump. She keeps 
 house for the 'squire, with devotion and good manage- 
 ment that are the admiration of the town; continues 
 to love and trust in Jack with unabated fervor, though 
 some young women, whom she remembers to have held 
 in her arms when they were babies in long clothes, are 
 long since married and have babies of their own. Still 
 she receives the sometime visits of her laggard lover 
 with the same grace and sweetness, confident that it will 
 all come right in time; has dropped the old familiar
 
 2io The tivo Ghosts of 
 
 " Jack " for " John " or " Mr. Avery," which is a hint 
 that we ought to do so, too. 
 
 That unfathomable individual has been for some time 
 a partner in a grocery establishment, carrying on a 
 good business, and realizing fair profits ; devotes much 
 of his leisure to revising the imaginary insurance table, 
 and has brought it down considerably closer; maintains 
 a great regard for his Cousin Philo, and has much affec- 
 tionate solicitude for his health; gives occasionally to 
 various benevolent objects; is extremely regular in all 
 his habits, and is generally regarded as a very nice 
 young man, who has turned out much better than was 
 expected of him. 
 
 Philo has purchased a farm in an adjoining town, and 
 is improving it with great care; is considered rather 
 " near " in his dealings, and is generally quite distant 
 and reserved. Suspicions are entertained that he has 
 been disappointed hi love, though nobody pretends to 
 know the particulars; always takes a great interest in 
 his Cousin John, whom he suspects of a tendency to 
 dropsy. John, on his part, thinks Philo consumptive. 
 
 Thirty-five. No great variation. 
 
 Both the farmer and the grocery-man are moderately 
 prosperous; though neither ventures much into specu- 
 lation, because each is mindful of possibilities in the 
 future that will give great additional advantages. The 
 insurance table has been reduced to one of the exact 
 sciences.
 
 New London Turnpike. 211 
 
 Molly, poor girl, has faded a shade or two. She still 
 keeps house, and raises an annual crop of old-maid 
 pinks and pathetic-looking pansies, together with sage 
 and rosemary and sweet marjoram, which she dries and 
 puts in her closets and drawers, in order that their 
 delicate, homelike fragrance may keep out the moths 
 and pervade her apparel. But, as she moves so briskly 
 and cheerfully about her little tasks, or bends over some 
 bit of sewing or other ladycraft, grave doubts intrude 
 themselves; and, if she were one whit less patient and 
 self-forgetful, she would sometimes throw aside all these 
 little occupations, and, like Jephthah's daughter, bewail 
 her virginity. And, as she sits on Sunday mornings in 
 church, alone in the pew except the 'squire, now an 
 old man who takes incredible quantities of snuff and 
 drops the hymn-book, as she sits thus, and watches 
 the happy matrons, no older than she, coming in one 
 by one, with their manly husbands and groups of rosy 
 children, there comes up, sometimes, a great rising in 
 her throat, which she is fain to subdue by taking bits of 
 her own preserved flag-root, which she carries always 
 in her pocket. Or, when she sees some pretty bride 
 arrayed in the customary fineries, she sighs a little, as 
 the thought that she has lost her best bloom comes un- 
 easily to the surface; and then she sometimes looks 
 timidly around to see if Mr. Avery has come to church. 
 But Mr. Avery isn't often there; the insurance ta- 
 ble takes up a good deal of his attention on Sun- 
 days.
 
 212 The two Ghosts of 
 
 Molly has long ceased to dream about the white 
 dresses and orange-blossoms. She would be glad, in- 
 deed, to make sure of a plain dark silk and only two 
 kinds of cake; and of late even her hopes of these have 
 become empty and melancholy as a last-year's birds- 
 nest. Yet she clings still to the shadow of her old co- 
 quette girlhood, and rejuvenates herself with a new bon- 
 net every spring, with as much seeming cheerfulness and 
 confidence as if she were fifteen instead of thirty-five. 
 
 Forty. Decided changes. 
 
 'Squire Tupper rests in a grave marked by the most 
 upright and respectable of tombstones. And then all 
 the chattering tongues, that had before wagged them- 
 selves weary with gossip and conjecture, took a renewed 
 impetus, and it was settled in all quarters that Molly 
 would now be married as speedily as the proprieties 
 of mourning would permit. And John himself, it 
 would seem, thought as much; for, without any undue 
 haste, he did make some motions looking that way. 
 He bought a new gig, and took Molly out to ride 
 several times, besides sitting very regularly in her pew 
 at church. And, having thus evinced the earnestness 
 of his intentions, he made himself spruce one Sabbath 
 evening, and proceeded to call on her, with the express 
 design of asking her to fix the long-deferred day. 
 
 But what was his surprise on finding, as he came 
 upon the stoop where he and Molly had so often ex- 
 changed vows of eternal fidelity (which had, indeed,
 
 New London Turnpike. 213 
 
 been tolerably tested), the best parlor gayly alight as 
 in the days of his early courtship, and to hear a male 
 voice in very animated conversation with Molly. 
 
 Curiosity and pride alike forbade him to retreat; but 
 how was his surprise intensified to dismay when Molly, 
 looking remarkably bright and young, ushered him into 
 the presence of Mr. Niles, a most respectable gentleman 
 resident in town, whose wife had been now three months 
 dead. He was as smiling and interesting as Molly. 
 And presently that outrageous damsel spoke up in the 
 easiest way in the world, 
 
 " You dropped in just the right time, Cousin John, for 
 now you shall be the first one to be invited to our 
 wedding. It is to come off a week from next Wednes- 
 day in the evening. We have just settled the time, and 
 I shall have to stir around pretty lively to get ready." 
 
 It was all true, and there was no help for it. John 
 Avery had presumed a trifle too much upon the elastic 
 quality of Molly's love for him, and now, at the eleventh 
 hour, her seraphic patience had given way, and let him 
 most decidedly and disgracefully down. When her 
 father was dead and she left in loneliness, and John still 
 delayed to make direct provision for altering the state 
 of things, Molly felt that she had passed the limit of for- 
 bearance, and with a sudden dash of spirit, in which she 
 seemed to concentrate all the unspoken pain and sup- 
 pressed sense of wrong that had struggled in her heart 
 through all these years past, she actually set her cap for 
 this forlorn widower with six children, caught him, 
 19
 
 214 Tke two Ghosts of 
 
 rushed him through a violent courtship, evoked from 
 his stricken heart an ardent and desperate declaration, 
 accepted, and married him, all in the space of eight 
 weeks. 
 
 And this was John's first intimation. Will any wo- 
 man blame her if she had been a little studious to con- 
 ceal the preliminaries from him, till it should be time to 
 acquaint him with the result, or if she wasn't especially 
 tender of his nervous sensibilities in making her disclos- 
 ure ? 
 
 But he was bidden to the wedding, and must needs 
 go, which he did, looking very glum, and kissing the 
 bride with far less gusto than he had done in former 
 times. But it was a very festive occasion, notwith- 
 standing, for the bridegroom appeared in a blue coat 
 with brass buttons, and his hair was greased to preter- 
 natural glossiness, while all the six children stood in a 
 row, their stature being graduated like a flight of steps, 
 and the cake was all that Molly had ever pictured it in 
 the wildest flight of her imagination. And Molly her- 
 self in a perfect cloud of gauze and blaze of blushes re- 
 newed her youth prodigiously. 
 
 It was all over, and John Avery walked slowly home- 
 ward with a glimmering consciousness that the things 
 of this life in general were rather shaky and uncertain, 
 indulging even a brief doubt as to the reliability of his 
 system of averages. 
 
 Fifty. Both of our old bachelors are beginning to
 
 New London Turnpike. 215 
 
 grow gray and morose. Philo stoops considerably, but 
 is otherwise in excellent physical preservation; reads 
 all the medical books about abstinence and frugality as 
 the means of promoting long life, and practises rigidly 
 upon their principles. John is equally tough and tem- 
 perate. Neither shows the least sign of giving out for 
 fifty years to come. Both have increased in substance 
 and have the reputation of being " forehanded." The 
 insurance table has been reduced to the very last frac- 
 tion; but, spite of its scientific accuracy, seems to be one 
 of those rules that are proved by their exceptions. 
 
 Mrs. Niles is the most devoted of wives, the perfec- 
 tion of step-mothers, and rejoices, besides, in a chubby 
 little boy of her own. All the seven are united in neg- 
 lecting no opportunity to rise up and call her blessed. 
 
 Sixty. Ditto only more so. 
 
 Seventy. The Ghosts? 
 
 Yes, indulgent reader, your patience hath had its per- 
 fect work, if it hath brought you through all these pre- 
 ceding pages, in order that you may witness this de- 
 nouement scene, in which the ghosts appear, with such 
 real and startling semblance in the eyes of some of our 
 actors, that, in comparison, the fifth act of a sensation 
 drama would have seemed mild as milk. 
 
 It is to see these supernatural visitants that we have 
 brought you all this long road. Let them show them- 
 selves but once, and we will then be content, nay glad, 
 to drop our curtain, retire from the footlights,and whisk
 
 2i6- The two Ghosts of 
 
 our actors back to the serene shades of private life. 
 Grant us, for a little time, the gifts of conjurers and 
 "meejums." Let our Asmodeus take you in charge, 
 and show you things that are beyond the range of mere 
 mortal perception. Ubiquity shall be yours while you 
 journey into the land of spirits, and the name of the 
 mischievous wizard and terrible practical joker who 
 conducts you thither shall be Jack Niles. 
 
 For we omitted to mention, in its appropriate connec- 
 tion, that when Molly found herself laid under the re- 
 sponsibility of naming her boy, she was debarred from 
 bestowing on him that of his father, since it had been 
 previously appropriated among the six, and her artistic 
 sense revolted from starting the poor, helpless innocent 
 out in the world under the honored designation of 
 Zophar Tupper, which his grandfather had borne with 
 such eminent respectability. And so, being influenced 
 by the tender grace of motherhood, and desirous of 
 showing her kind feeling towards the man whom she 
 had once so loved and had now so freely forgiven, she 
 felt that she could do it in no more expressive way than 
 by calling her baby John Avery. The compliment was 
 appreciated, and there may still be seen, among the fam- 
 ily treasures of the Niles tribe, a silver cup, of punchy 
 form and curious workmanship, marked with the in- 
 scription " J. A. K. from J. A." 
 
 Jack the second grew up a tolerably correct copy of 
 the boyhood of his namesake. He was gifted with the 
 same gaye^y of temperament, and facility for getting
 
 New London Turn-pike. 217 
 
 into scrapes. It had happened more than once that 
 heedless pranks of his had been leniently looked upon, 
 and concealed or remedied by the considerate care of 
 John the elder, who, spite of all the miserable warping 
 and drying up of all his kindlier sympathies under the 
 influence of that ever-impending possibility, still seemed 
 to find a congenial satisfaction in the society of this 
 frank, jolly youth, whose presence brought with it such 
 an echo of his own once careless, joyous life. 
 
 But, spite of warnings and admonitions, Jack was still 
 a sad boy, and his favorite mode of working off his sur- 
 plus activity was in devising and executing practical 
 jokes. His invention and audacity reached their cul- 
 mination in a most unprincipled scheme against the two 
 venerable Avery cousins. 
 
 Philo was now as sour, dry, and wizened an old man 
 as dwelt in the state of Connecticut, and those bleak 
 hills and stony slopes do not seem to produce very ripe 
 and mellow old age. But Philo was known as an es- 
 pecially hard and grasping old sinner, living a sort of 
 dog's life, all by himself, and too stingy to open his eyes 
 wide. And it befell once that he and his strange, bar- 
 ren mode of life were touched upon in the evening talk 
 of the Niles family, and then the mother, with her old, 
 modest sprightliness, went over the story of the two 
 wills made so long ago, and which must, in the natural 
 course of human events, soon come into effect. She had 
 grown to be an old woman, this blessed mother, but 
 none of the loving ones, to whom her presence had been 
 19*
 
 218 The two Ghosts of 
 
 a joy and consolation for so many years, ever thought 
 of her gray hairs or caps or spectacles, except as the 
 emblems of more abundant peace and benediction. 
 
 She tells her story now, about the early days of the 
 two old men, whose withered faces, and bent forms, and 
 eager, acquisitive eyes are so familiar to them all, and 
 as she proceeds, Jack lapses from lively attention to a 
 mood of profound reflection, which is always a bad sign 
 for somebody. 
 
 In the evening twilight of the next day, a thin, yel- 
 low-haired lad, mounted on a large, bony, sorrel horse, 
 presented himself with an appearance of great haste and 
 urgency before the door of Philo A very 's hermetic 
 dwelling. After a vigorous though fruitless knocking, he 
 made his way to the rear of the small, dismal brown 
 house, and spied an aged figure advancing from an ad- 
 jacent piece of woods, bending under the weight of a 
 large heap of brush. 
 
 " Be you Philo Avery ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered the ancient, with evident suspicion. 
 
 " Then I've got a letter for you," said the thin youth, 
 and, thrusting it forth, sprang upon his high horse and 
 clattered away down the road. 
 
 A letter I Philo stood and watched the messenger 
 till he disappeared from sight, filled with a vague sense 
 that something strange was about to break upon him. 
 A letter sent to him was in itself a strange occurrence. 
 Who could write to him ? and for what ? Could it in- 
 deed be the one thing so long looked for ? and, if it
 
 New London Turnpike. 
 
 219 
 
 were, how sudden ! Tremulous with excitement, he trot- 
 ted into the house, and, after many minutes of agitated 
 fumbling, succeeded in lighting a candle. Then he held 
 the letter close and tried to examine the address, for 
 Philo was a victim to that unaccountable oddity, to 
 which the greater portion of human nature is prone, of 
 making a close and critical scrutiny of any unexpected 
 or mysterious letter, before opening it for the conclusive 
 knowledge of its contents. But everything looks misty 
 before his eyes, and, after much squinting and peering, it 
 occurs to him that he has forgotten his spectacles. And 
 at last, after more delay and fumbling, he comes to the 
 subject matter, very brief but comprehensive: 
 
 " John Avery died last night. Funeral at ten o'clock 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 No date, no signature ; but what of that ? Over and 
 over Philo read the two lines, before his mind could 
 really grasp the intelligence they conveyed. It would 
 have made a striking picture, that withered, bent fig- 
 ure, in its coarse, well-worn clothes, stooping in the dim, 
 lonely room, and the hungry eyes devouring that bit of 
 news. It had happened at last, this thing for which he 
 has waited almost half a century. How many hun- 
 dred times he had imagined his own feelings when it 
 should come to him, and how different it all was ! The 
 old man sinks into a chair and gives himself up to rev- 
 ery. And sitting thus, there come stealing upon him 
 remembrances of long past scenes. He thinks of the time 
 when he and John were boys together, and of all his
 
 220 
 
 mother's love and care of both; of the parting on the 
 deck of the Skylark, and their long voyage. And then 
 came the slow-moving panorama of all the dull, dreary, 
 barren years that dragged their slow length onward be- 
 tween his present self and all these boyish memories. 
 The hours pass unnoted as the poor old man goes 
 through the successive stages of his retrospect, and 
 finally arouses himself with a start when the candle, that 
 has been burning dim and flickering, gives a dying glare 
 and goes out in the socket. And then he arises, cramped 
 and stiff, and creeps trembling to bed as the cocks are 
 crowing for midnight. But the newly-made heir cannot 
 sleep. Haunting images visit him, as the Furies sur- 
 rounded Orestes. At length he rises and seeks the re- 
 pository of his valuables. He takes out the will, and 
 though he has known it, every word by heart, for a 
 whole generation's lifetime, he reads it mechanically 
 over. How strange the lines look, and the name of 
 Zophar Tupper, written with the old magisterial flourish! 
 Here, too, are the signatures of the witnesses, and he 
 finds himself wondering why John never married Molly 
 after all, and, even now, does not dream that he himself 
 was the obstacle, by his disagreeable persistency in liv- 
 ing; for our mortality is the last and severest lesson 
 that we learn in life. 
 
 Philo wonders if it is not almost daylight, and looks 
 out at the east window for the first streak of dawn; 
 reflects that he must start early, for it is nine miles to 
 the town, and his old horse is not over-active. He will
 
 Neiv London Turnpike. 221 
 
 have to dress up, too, for the funeral. How strange ! 
 To pass away the time, he begins to get out his clothes 
 and lay them ready. From the depths of a great red 
 chest he brings up a pair of good, new pantaloons, that 
 he has not worn for ten years, and then a coat to match, 
 and a fine shirt with a ruffled bosom, that Aunt Betsy 
 made for him while she was still young enough to do 
 euch things. And, lastly, he bethinks himself of a pair 
 of black linen gloves that he bought on the occasion of 
 the good woman's funeral, and from the darkest corner 
 of the chest he fishes them up. A little dingy and rot- 
 ten they are, to be sure, but still in wonderful preserva- 
 tion, though they give way in two or three spots when 
 he puts them carefully on. 
 
 In these little occupations he wears away the hours 
 till the darkness begins to grow gray, and as soon as he 
 can see sufficiently he goes to the pasture and leads his 
 astonished old horse to the door. Then comes the terri- 
 ble process of shaving; and what spectacle is more for- 
 lorn than that of an old bachelor trying to shave a long, 
 stiff beard by a weak light and with cold water ? Even 
 this is at length achieved ; and then, after much brushing 
 and other unaccustomed elaborations of toilet, he 
 places the will carefully in his pocket, and, drawing on 
 the rusty gloves, takes a final survey of himself before 
 starting. The mouldy little mirror reflects a thin, yel- 
 low face dried into long, fine wrinkles, straggling gray 
 locks, and watery, pale-blue eyes. The old-fashioned 
 clothes make the thin, stooping figure more awkward
 
 222 The two Ghosts of 
 
 and spindling, and a high, tight cravat completes the 
 scarecrow effect of the whole. Still Philo has done his 
 best, and is satisfied, as he mounts his ancient steed, that 
 he presents the very likeness of respectable sorrow. 
 
 And jogging decorously onward, as becomes his dis- 
 mal errand, he ponders how different this morning is 
 from all the other mornings of his life. In the silver- 
 gray dawn there come back all the strange sentiments 
 that had arisen out of the surprise and excitement of the 
 previous midnight. A thick mist creeps up from a little 
 stream that runs by the road-side, and its. damp, clinging 
 chill seems to strike through and saturate his very vitals. 
 It occurs to him that the road is very lonely, and the few 
 scattered farm-houses very dreary and inhospitable- 
 looking, for it is a cloudy morning, and people are not 
 yet stirring. 
 
 All the influences and associations of the hour are 
 dreary and funereal. He tries to fix his mind upon the 
 inheritance into which he is about to step, but no bright, 
 alluring visions rise at his call, and his thoughts are 
 either perpetually recurring to the early memories that 
 so affected him the night before, or else to the sugges- 
 tion of his own form lying stiff and cold for burial in the 
 place of his cousin's. All the well-known landmarks of 
 the familiar way start into new and strange aspects; and 
 he recoils in affright from an old guideboard that has 
 stood in exactly the same place for forty years, but now 
 appears like some spectral gallows that spreads its arms 
 in ghostly invitation. He twists and pinches himself as
 
 New London Turnpike. 223 
 
 he rides along, to be assured that he is in the world of 
 realities; but the night's experiences have unstrung his 
 aged nerves, and mind and body quiver helplessly alike. 
 
 And now, from the brow of a little eminence, he per- 
 ceives a gig slowly advancing from below, and, as it 
 nears him, he becomes conscious of a great familiarity 
 in its appearance. It is certainly very like the one that 
 John bought so long ago, before Molly was married, 
 and which he has used ever since. Curiously, too, it is 
 drawn by a white horse, and John has had a white horse 
 for ages past. This is indeed a coincidence. The thing 
 comes noiselessly nearer. Oh, horror of horrors ! It is 
 John's own self, his form, his features, his old 
 brown hat, John indeed, but deadly pale, and with 
 wide, wild eyes fixed in a terrible stony gaze. No 
 natural look, no nod of recognition, but only that 
 hideous, glassy stare as he comes silently along, riding 
 up out of the white fog, 
 
 Philo can neither move nor cry out. He would turn 
 and escape, but his stiffened hand refuses to draw the 
 rein, and his horse has become, like himself, rigid and 
 motionless. 
 
 Prayers, oaths, and invocations rush, in a confused 
 huddle, through his bewildered brain, as he sits and 
 gazes, unable to remove his eyes from that horrid sight, 
 and while he is vainly seeking to frame his lips to some 
 sort of utterance, the wraith itself breaks the silence. 
 
 " Philo." The tone is broken and distant. 
 
 Trembling and choked, he tries to answer. The blood.
 
 
 224 The two Ghosts of 
 
 rushes to his face and almost blinds him, and he stam- 
 mers out, 
 
 " John Avery, aren't you dead ? " 
 
 " Are you ? " asks the wraith. 
 
 "I I I don't know," says Philo, and he didn't. 
 
 The ghost rises, steps down from the gig, and extends 
 his hand. It is very cold and clammy, but still a sound, 
 fleshly hand, though quite hard and shrunken from its 
 early proportions. 
 
 " Thank God ! " shouts Philo Avery. 
 
 " Thank God I " responds John Avery, fervently. 
 
 " How came you here ? " asks Philo, still a little in- 
 credulous as to the real mortality of his companion. 
 
 " On my way to attend your funeral," says John. 
 
 " Why, no, that can't be, I'm going to yours." 
 
 " Heavens ! " exclaims John. 
 
 " I guess it's a hoax," suggests Philo. 
 
 John takes out a letter and reads aloud: " Philo Avery 
 died last night. Funeral at ten o'cZocfc to-morrow morn- 
 ing." 
 
 " Just like mine, except the name," says Philo. " So 
 you thought I was a ghost." 
 
 " Didn't know what else you could be. You looked 
 queer enough for one," replied John. 
 
 " "Well, I've lived long enough to see ghosts, but this 
 is the first of that kind of gentry that ever showed them- 
 selves to me," cried Philo, in his high, cracked voice, and 
 actually convulsed with laughter. John joined in, and 
 the two ghosts made the whole region alive.
 
 New London Turnpike. 225 
 
 " It must have been somebody that knew about the 
 wills," said John, when they had grown calm. 
 
 " Yes," replied Philo ; " and what cursed things they 
 have been ? " 
 
 " Cursed for both of us," said John. 
 
 " Have you got it along with you ? " 
 
 " Yes, of course, have you ? " answered John, red- 
 dening faintly. 
 
 " Why, yes, and here it goes," cried Philo, with 
 sudden energy, pulling it out, and shredding it in strips. 
 John was not to be outdone. With equal eagerness he 
 pulled his out, and, in a few seconds, both the wills were 
 fluttering in fragments among the elderberry bushes by 
 the road-side. 
 
 " What a contemptible old screw I've been ! " ex- 
 claimed John, penitentially, as the insurance table came 
 into his mind. 
 
 "No worse than I," said Philo, thinking of all his 
 drudging, grovelling years. 
 
 "Why, do you know I've wished you dead," burst 
 out John. 
 
 " Well, suppose you have, I've done the same by 
 you," answered Philo. 
 
 " May God forgive us both." 
 
 " Amen" said Philo, solemnly. 
 
 " And help us in the future," continued John. 
 
 " Amen again," said Philo. 
 
 The muffled clatter of a horse's hoofs sounded through 
 the fog, and presently the twinkling face of Jack Kiles
 
 
 226 The two Ghosts. 
 
 beamed upon the ghostly couple. Looking with well 
 simulated astonishment on the group, the empty gig, 
 and his venerable namesake standing in the middle of 
 the road, Jack paused and begged to know what was 
 the trouble, and whether he could be of service. 
 
 " I believe it was you," said Philo, looking at the mis- 
 chievous lad with sudden prescience. 
 
 " I know 'twas," said John. 
 
 And though Jack never owned it, that was a convic- 
 tion that never departed from the minds of the two, and 
 when they died, long after, he found himself bound by 
 substantial reasons to remember the Two Ghosts of 
 New London Turnpike.
 
 DOWN BY THE SEA. 
 
 (227)
 
 DOWN BY THE SEA. 
 
 [jHEKE is a lonely old house situated close down 
 by the sea, in one of the most secluded yet lone- 
 ly nooks, not far from one of the most noted 
 resorts on the seaboard ; an old gray stone 
 house, showing the marks of the many wild 
 storms which have beat upon it in all the long years 
 which have passed over it; a house whose bareness 
 and desolation are enlivened but little by the heavy- 
 trailing ivy which creeps over a portion of it and in 
 which many wild birds build their nests. Old as it is, it 
 seems never to have been finished, rather to have been 
 left without any of the last touches which complete a 
 building, and to have thus stood for many years, with 
 the wild winds and storms of the coast beating against 
 it. Here and there a shutter is torn from its hinges, 
 and lies where it fell under the window. The point is 
 entirely gone from cornice and colonnade, and the floor 
 of the latter, which had never been painted, is old and 
 worm-eaten. The grounds about it are an intricate tan- 
 gle of brushwood. Flowering shrubs, which had been 
 planted here and there, have grown up into wild and un- 
 20 * (229)
 
 230 Down by the Sea. 
 
 shapely trees. Rose-bushes and wild vines choke up the 
 paths, and the gates and fences are broken and dilapi- 
 dated. There is one path, which leads down to the 
 beach, which has been kept open, and has, apparently, 
 been often trodden; but apart from this there seems to 
 be but little sign of life around the old gray house. 
 There is, indeed, one red-curtained window upon the 
 side which looks out to sea, and here a bright light is al- 
 ways burning at night, and all night, and the sailors 
 have learned to watch for it as for a signal; and the 
 place is known to them as the Lone-Star House. Let 
 us watch around the house, and perhaps it will have a 
 story to tell, such places often do have, lonely and 
 deserted as they seem; stories often full enough of 
 human love and heart-break. " It looks as though it 
 might be haunted," say the gay parties who ride by it 
 from the fashionable resort a few miles away. Yes, and 
 there is no doubt but what it is. 
 
 " All houses wherein men have lived and died 
 
 Are haunted houses. Through the open doors 
 Phantoms unseen upon their errands glide 
 With feet that make no noise upon the floors." 
 
 It is growing sunset now, and the sky is blossoming 
 most gloriously with many-colored clouds, as out of 
 the door of the old house a woman glides and takes the 
 beaten path to the beach. A great rough and shaggy 
 dog follows her, and the two together walk thoughtfully 
 along. They go down where the great waves are turn-
 
 Down by the Sea. 231 
 
 bling and tossing upon the rocks, and pace rapidly up 
 and down the shore, looking far out over the green 
 waters with their fleecy crowns of foam. She is a woman 
 of middle-age, verging near upon forty, one would say, 
 tall, and straight as an arrow, with large, unfathomable 
 gray eyes and a massive coronal of glossy hair, 
 streaked here and there with gray. She wears a cheap, 
 dark dress; but she has a handsome scarlet shawl 
 around her shoulders, of the most superb tint of which 
 you can conceive; and she looks like a woman who 
 would love rich and gorgeous coloring; and, indeed, it is 
 one of her passions. In draperies, in articles of dress 
 where such colors are admissible, and more than all in 
 flowers and leaves, she loves the deepest and richest 
 tints. Every night the sunset is a revelation to her. 
 She studies the gorgeous castles and cathedrals of gold, 
 which are builded in the western heavens with a glory 
 which the temple of Solomon could never attain; and 
 she watches, from her little turret window up in the old 
 gray house yonder, every morning for the rising of the 
 great high-priest in his garments resplendent. There 
 was, indeed, something warm and rich and tropical in 
 her blood, albeit it sprung from the cold !N"ew England 
 fount. She reminded one, as much as anything, of 
 
 " The wondrous valley hidden in the depths of Gloucester woods 
 Full of plants which love the summer blooms of warmer latitudes, 
 Where the Arctic birch is broided by the tropic's flowery vines, 
 And the silver-starred magnolia lights the twilight of the pines."
 
 232 Down by the Sea. 
 
 She walks upon the beach till the sunset has burned 
 low in the red west, and then takes the path back to the 
 house. When about half-way across the garden, she 
 turns off a little from the main path, and, putting back 
 the bushes with her hands, makes her way for a few 
 paces and stops at a little grave, a child's grave, tuft- 
 ed thick with purple pansies, sprinkled with white dai- 
 sies. She sits down for a moment beside it, plucks one 
 or two spires of grass which have sprung up among the 
 flowers, then hurriedly leaves it, calling her dog after 
 her, and going into the house, where the light soon 
 shines in the seaward-looking window. The woman's 
 name is Agnes Wayland, and here she has lived alone 
 for now nearly twenty years, alone, except once in a 
 while of a summer she takes a quiet boarder or two, 
 who see little of her and know less, and of whom she 
 esteems it a great pleasure to be well rid, when the au- 
 tumnal equinox comes on. "Winter and summer, in 
 storm and sleet, rain and Shine, she stays shut in the 
 dim old house all day, and emerges only towards even- 
 ing for her walk upon the beach, and her peep at the lit- 
 tle grave, with its coverlet of pansies in summer and its 
 white drapery of snow in winter. Upon the night of 
 which I have been writing, she made her way back, as I 
 have said, into her own room, a room where her pre- 
 vailing tastes could quickly be discovered. A peculiar 
 depth and brilliancy of coloring pervaded everything; 
 carpet and curtains were of the same vivid crimson, 
 and the large bay-window filled with plants was gorgeous
 
 Down by the Sea. 233 
 
 as a festal-room of the fairies. Everything was old and 
 much worn, and had a look of old but not faded splen- 
 dor. A few books occupied a cabinet in one corner, and 
 a piano, which was always locked, stood in another. 
 An easy-chair was drawn up to a little stand, near the 
 window, and upon it lay an open Bible. This was the 
 place where she sat and read hour by hour and day by 
 day, always from the Bible, only varying her occupa- 
 tion by weary hours over intricate and elaborate pieces 
 of fancy-work, more beautiful and marvellous than 
 such pieces of work ever were made before, but always 
 things which required only mechanical kind of ingenuity, 
 and needed genius and taste only in the coloring, and 
 these she sold at the nearest town, and so earned her 
 daily bread. After she had taken her accustomed seat 
 this evening, she was startled by a ring at the door, a 
 sound so unusual that she trembled like a leaf as she 
 took the lamp and started to answer the summons. She 
 had got half-way down the stairs, when she stopped, and 
 called lightly to the dog, who was beside her in a mo- 
 ment, and together they opened the door. A grave- 
 looking elderly gentleman stood there, who inquired if 
 he had the honor of addressing Mrs. Wayland. 
 
 " That is my name, sir," she answered, not opening 
 the door or bidding him enter. 
 
 " And mine is Ashly, madam. I am a clergyman, liv- 
 ing in Boston, and I am seeking a quiet place, near the 
 sea, in which to spend the summer. I have been told in 
 the village yonder that you sometimes receive a boarder,
 
 234 Down by the Sea. 
 
 and I think your place will just suit me. I have recom- 
 mendations, if you wish." 
 
 But Mrs. Wayland did not need them. She was too 
 good a judge of character, despite her long seclusion, 
 not to see at a glance that he was what he asserted, 
 and that, if she must have boarders at all, he was 
 just what she wanted. So she invited him in, without 
 relaxing a particle in the coldness of her demeanor, and, 
 giving him a seat in a cheerless-looking and scantily- 
 furnished dining-room, told him in as few words as pos- 
 sible what she would do for him and for how much she 
 would do it, a straightforwardness which raised her 
 very highly in the reverend doctor's estimation, al- 
 though she designed, if she had a design in the matter, 
 quite a contrary effect. She had sometimes had some 
 trouble in keeping her boarders at a sufficient distance 
 to suit her, and she had found it necessary upon their 
 first arrival to have it distinctly understood that they 
 were to expect no sort of companionship from her; that 
 she gave them a room and their board, such as it was, and 
 she never took any pains to make it good or attractive, 
 and that that was all she wanted of them. But Dr. Ashly 
 had a great horror of a bustling and gossipy landlady, 
 and thought he had found a perfect treasure; and when 
 she had shown him the room he could have, if he liked, 
 he eagerly agreed to take it, and said if she had no ob- 
 jection he would take possession forthwith, and not go 
 back to the village till morning. To this she assented 
 indifferently, and soon left him alone, calling the one
 
 Down by the Sea. 235 
 
 house-maid to get him some supper, and, retiring to her 
 own room, was soon buried in her accustomed thoughts, 
 and scarcely aware of his existence. And as landlady 
 and lodger were equally pleased to let each other alone, 
 there was little intercourse between them for several 
 weeks. But one night, when the doctor had been for 
 a long walk on the beach, he saw, as he was returning, 
 Mrs. Wayland, in her usual evening exercise, pacing up 
 and down the beach, and was struck by her appearance 
 as she walked thus, and stood still for a time observing 
 her, and followed her at last, at a little distance, while she 
 made her visit to the child's grave. His kind heart was 
 very much touched by the sight, and he determined to talk 
 with her and give her his sympathy and friendship, if she 
 needed them. So he gathered some of the pansies off 
 from the grave, and, holding them in his hand, went into 
 tea. Mrs. Waylaud had laid aside her shawl and was 
 already seated at the table. They usually had little con- 
 versation at these times, and that of the most common- 
 place character. This evening, as he came through the 
 door and she caught sight of the flowers in his hand, 
 she exclaimed, in a quick, excited way, " You have been 
 to my grave ! " 
 
 She spoke as though he had intruded upon her most 
 sacred privacy, and he answered, apologetically, " Yes, 
 I have visited the little grave in the garden. I hope I 
 have not intruded. I have a little grave in the church- 
 yard at home, and such spots are very sacred to me." 
 
 Agnes Wayland was a lady, and she would not have
 
 236 Down by the Sea. 
 
 been guilty of a rudeness for the world, so she hastened 
 to reply, 
 
 " Oh, no, sir, you have not been guilty of intrusion, but 
 you are the first one who has ever visited my grave, 
 and I have watched it so fondly for so many years 
 that I almost felt jealous that any other eyes should 
 ever look upon it." 
 
 " And I have not only looked upon it," said the min- 
 ister, very softly and benignantly, " but I have dropped 
 a tear upon it." 
 
 " That is something that I have never done." 
 
 " Then I pity you with all my heart, my friend. If I 
 had not been able to weep over my child's grave, I think 
 my heart would have broken." 
 
 " Mine, sir, was broken before the child died," and, as 
 she said this, she arose hastily and left the room. 
 
 The minister was much interested and full of sympa- 
 thy for this lonely woman, whose lot was so isolated, and 
 as he lay that night and listened to the deep, hollow roar 
 of the sea, he thought of the great deeps cf the human 
 heart, and the fierce passions which were ever tossing 
 it, and of the great calm of death. 
 
 A few days after he ventured as delicately as he 
 could to return to the subject, by referring to the little 
 girl he had lost, and of how her mother had followed 
 her, but a short time before, to the better land. 
 
 " You seem very cheerful, sir," said Agnes Wayland, 
 in a quick, impetuous way, " and yet you have had 
 trouble, it seems."
 
 Down by the Sea. 237 
 
 " Yes, madam, I have had some very severe and dread- 
 ful trials; but I am very happy and hopeful in spite of 
 them all, for I know that now they will soon be ended, and 
 that I shall recover all that I have lost when I reach the 
 heavenly land." 
 
 " How do you know that ? I don't know it. When I 
 buried my only child down in the garden there, I thought 
 I had lost him forever. That was why, in my stony grief, 
 no tear ever fell upon his grave. I have been trying 
 these fifteen years to believe what you say you believe ; 
 but it has no consolation for me. God took my child 
 away from me in my bitterest need, and he took him 
 forever. "Was it a good God who did that ? " 
 
 Her voice was cold and rigid, and a pallor as of death 
 was upon her face as she paused for a reply. 
 
 " A good God, madam ! and whom he loveth he chas- 
 teneth ! " 
 
 " No, indeed, sir, I don't believe that. He didn't love 
 me, and I didn't love him, and I don't love him now, 
 hate him, rather. He has tried me too sorely." 
 
 " My dear friend, you know not what you say. I be- 
 seech you, do not blaspheme your God." 
 
 " I have only said, sir, for once, what I have been 
 thinking all these dreadful years. When I buried my 
 child down there, I did not believe in any God for 
 years. I thought some vile and fiendish Fate was pursu- 
 ing me. Then you ministers were always saying to 
 me, ' Pray; ' and I prayed. They said to me, ' Study the 
 word of God ; ' and I studied it. It has been my only 
 
 21
 
 238 Down by the Sea. 
 
 study for fifteen years, and it has brought me no conso- 
 lation yet." 
 
 " But you have found God in it, have you not ? You 
 do not deny a God ? " 
 
 " I have found a God in it certainly, but only a God 
 who has separated me eternally from all I love." 
 
 " My dear friend, I assure you, you have not yet found 
 the true God, if you believe this." 
 
 " I have found I verily believe the God of the Bible, 
 and he has said the wicked shall go away into everlast- 
 ing punishment; and I am the most wicked of all God's 
 creatures." 
 
 Here Mrs. Wayland left him again standing upon the 
 colonnade, and hurried rapidly from him down the path 
 which led to the sea. Her conversation had revived in 
 her heart all the strong passions which slumbered there, 
 and which she usually held in close repression. As she 
 paced wildly up arid down the beach, feeling in her 
 nearness to the sea a sort of comfort as though the 
 great ocean were her friend, she thought over her whole 
 lonely life. She thought of her happy and brilliant 
 youth, of its gay eties, its triumphs, and its great hopes ; 
 she beheld herself the petted darling of a joyous circle 
 of Wrnpanions and friends. She thought of her journeys 
 in distant lands, whither a loving father had taken her, 
 and of all the delights of those years when they had 
 wandered through all the sunny climes of southern 
 Europe, and so away on to the Orient, where she had 
 trodden with pilgrim feet all the sacred places of that
 
 Down by the Sea. 239 
 
 Holy Land. It was there she had first met her hus- 
 band; and she dwelt with fondness upon every little in- 
 cident which memory recalled of her intercourse with 
 him there, and of how they had sailed together upon 
 their return to their native land. It was then she had 
 learned to love the ocean. In those long days, when 
 they were out upon the trackless deep, they had 
 learned together the sweet mystery of loving. Night 
 after night they had paced the deck together, gazing 
 out upon the moonlighted expanse, and watching the 
 breakers rise and fall. The long voyage had been a 
 season of enchantment. It had passed into her being, 
 and become a part of her inmost life forever. She had 
 one of those natures to whom such things come but once 
 in a lifetime. When they had reached home, they had 
 been married, and, after a year or two of pleasant mar- 
 ried life, they had built the old gray house of which I 
 have told you, designing to pass their summers down 
 there within hearing of the grand, eternal anthem of the 
 sea. How well she remembered the hurry they were in to 
 get down here, so great a hurry that they could not stop 
 to have the house entirely finished, and so in early May 
 they had furnished two or three rooms, and livedjhere 
 in a wild trance of what seems to her now, as she looks 
 back upon it, perfect bliss. Here they wandered up 
 and down the beach together hand in hand for hours 
 and beheld the waters glowing in the early tints of sun- 
 rise, and reflecting the gorgeous splendors of sunset, and 
 rippling and shimmering in the bewildering moonlight.
 
 240 . Down by the Sea. 
 
 Then she thinks of how gayeties began up at the village 
 yonder, and how they began to see much company and 
 to mingle in all the excitements of watering-place life. 
 Here they had met the beautiful syren who had stolen 
 her husband from her. With what angry hate she 
 dwells upon the soft, bewildering beauty of that woman, 
 her rounded, dimpled form, her golden hair, and the 
 languishing blueness of the dreamy eyes ! She seemed 
 in all her bewitching beauty, to the eye of Agnes Way- 
 land, more hateful and hideous than a fiend. She had 
 fascinated Mortimer Wayland almost from their first 
 meeting. Of a dreamy, sensuous temperament, and a 
 weak will, and with no great power of principle at his 
 back, the artful and wicked woman had ensnared him with 
 her wiles, and in the meshes of her charms he had for- 
 gotten the grand and queenly wife, who to every eye was 
 so infinitely the superior of one for whom he was desert- 
 ing her, and the little year-old baby, who was just learn- 
 ing to lisp " father " to him as he fondled him. 
 
 Of the wild tempest which tossed her soul at this time 
 she dreaded to think even now. It had been so near to 
 madness that it was a terror to her yet. But pride had 
 always been one of her ruling. passions, and, instead of 
 pleading with him with a woman's tenderness, as some 
 might have done, she had treated him with coldness and 
 disdain, and with reproachful scorn had goaded him on 
 to take the last step in the dreadful drama. 
 
 He had deserted her, and with the blue-eyed woman 
 had sailed for a distant land. Never since that time.
 
 Down by the Sea. 241 
 
 now nearly twenty years, had she left, except for her 
 lonely walks, the old gray house. She shut herself up 
 like a hermit, and with wild and bitter grief cursed her- 
 self and her God. Down into the deepest gloom of 
 despair she went, where never a single ray of heavenly 
 light and comfort reached her. Her child, indeed, she 
 had left; but although she loved him with all the concen- 
 trated passion of her nature, he seemed little comfort to 
 her. She brooded continually upon the darkness of her 
 fate, and upon the fathomless depths of despair into 
 which she was sinking. 
 
 Then the child died, and her last human interest went; 
 and she made its little grave in the tangled garden, and 
 every year covered it thick with flowers. But in her 
 heart no white blossom of hope had ever sprung up, no 
 purple pansy of royal magnanimity and forgiveness had 
 yet blossomed there. And this night, after so many 
 years, she was living it all over again with tragic inter- 
 est, and no softened feelings of relenting or forgiveness 
 entered her stern heart. 
 
 " He is very happy," she thought to herself as she 
 wended her way back and stood by her little grave; " he 
 is very happy, for he can stand by his child's bed and 
 weep ; and so could I, if I had his hope. O my dar- 
 ling, my darling, darling boy ! " and she stooped down, 
 and threw her arms caressingly over the little mound. 
 
 " Oh, if God would only, only let me meet you once 
 more ! O my God, why cannot I forgive and be for- 
 given ? " v 
 
 21*
 
 242 Down by the Sea. 
 
 " My sister," said the kind old man, coming up and 
 hearing her last words; and feeling how vain it would 
 be to reason or expostulate with this woman, " let us 
 pray; " and, almost before she knew it, they were kneel- 
 ing by the little one's grave ; and before the old minister 
 had concluded his simple but touching prayer, the 
 woman, whose heart had been stone for so many years, 
 was weeping, weeping with passionate sobs like a little 
 child; and when he had concluded, she arose, and with- 
 out a word made her way into the house, and soon the 
 red light shone in the little window. 
 
 Somehow after this a more gentle feeling crept into 
 the heart of Mrs. Wayland. A softer light came into 
 her eye, and a more gestfe tremor was in her voice as 
 she addressed the old minister, who saw that she was 
 touched, but was too wise to meddle farther than was 
 absolutely necessary with the good work which he was 
 sure was going on. 
 
 It was not many weeks from the evening of which I 
 have spoken, when, as she was returning from her even- 
 ing walk, she beheld a scene of bustle around the door of 
 her house; a carriage was driving away, and a trunk 
 stood upon the steps, while some figures seemed just en- 
 tering the door whom she could not distinguish in the 
 gathering darkness. " Dr. Ashly has some friends 
 come," she thought, with a feeling of impatience ; " what 
 shall I do with them ? " and she walked quickly to the 
 house. As she turned into the cheerless dining-room, 
 the only room which was ever used below, she saw,
 
 Down by the Sea. * 243 
 
 stretched upon a couch, the figure of a man propped up 
 by pillows, which seemed to have been hastily brought, 
 and looking pallid and wan. She walked quickly for- 
 ward, but when she had reached the middle of the room, 
 she stopped like one transfixed, and, with wild eyes full 
 of eagerness and something like joy, looked about her. 
 
 " Mortimer "Wayland ! " she exclaimed at last, grasping 
 the table for support. " Why come you here ? " 
 
 " I have come home to die, Agnes. I could not die any- 
 where else; I have been for years trying to do so, 
 but God would not let me. I was forced to come and 
 seek your forgiveness, and God will not take me until I 
 have it; yet I dare not ask you to grant it; it is too 
 much ! " At this the sick man shut his eyes wearily, 
 and said no more. 
 
 " Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who trespass 
 against us," solemnly said the voice of the old minister, 
 who was sitting near the couch upon which the man lay. 
 
 " Oh, sir, you cannot know what it is for me to ask of 
 her. Most wrongs may be forgiven; but mine against 
 her is so great that she cannot forgive me, I am sure, 
 unless God helps her. .1 have been suffering for it these 
 twenty years, trying to expiate it; but I have failed. 
 I have suffered, I have struggled, I have almost died 
 many times, sir; but I could not atone for my sin, and 
 God could not forgive it, nor can she." 
 
 Then the minister's voice was heard again, and it 
 said, " Sister, remember the little child's grave in the 
 garden, and forgive and be forgiven."
 
 244 r Down by the Sea. 
 
 Then Mrs. Wayland, who had stood like a statue all 
 this time, rushed forward, and, kneeling by the couch 
 poured forth her whole heart in a torrent of passionate 
 words, 
 
 " O my husband, my darling, my only love, forgive 
 me for my coldness and my scorn ! forgive me for not 
 helping you to withstand temptation, I, who was al- 
 ways the stronger ! It was I who drove you away, 
 and for it I have suffered and agonized all these years. 
 I have been so hard, so wicked and cruel, so unpitying 
 and unforgiving, that I have had no rest or peace 
 night or day. It is so blessed to feel that I forgive 
 you I so joyful to think that you will forgive me, 
 that God will forgive us both 1 " and the woman laid 
 her head upon his breast, and rained upon his lips a 
 thousand passionate kisses. 
 
 Then Dr. Ashly would have left them; but the wo- 
 man called him back. 
 
 " Share in our great joy, dear friend," she said ; " for, 
 had it not been for you, this would never have been. 
 A few weeks ago I should never have received him 
 whom I loved even as I had always loved, but whom 
 my pride would have banished from my door in the face 
 of all his pleadings; but you have softened my heart, 
 and to you we owe this joyful hour. And now you 
 must help me," she continued, with a woman's thought- 
 ful care, " to carry him to my own room upstairs, which 
 is the only comfortable room I have; and there I can 
 nurse him up, and soon have him well again."
 
 Down by the Sea. 245 
 
 And so he was carried up to the room where she had 
 sat alone so many years, and was soon as comfortable 
 as womanly care could make him. 
 
 " How natural it all looks here ! " he said, glancing 
 around the room. " It is just as it used to be, isn't 
 it, darling ? And I remember it so well, furnished, 
 to suit you, in crimson, which you still like, as I see by 
 your shawl." 
 
 "Yes," she said, with a little blush; "I have always 
 worn it for your sake. You used to say it was just the 
 color to suit me, and I have worn it all these years." 
 
 " Darling," said he, looking all about the room, " I see 
 no traces of any one but yourself here. "Where is our 
 child, our little baby boy ? " 
 
 Agnes "Wayland went softly up to him, and put her 
 arms around his neck, as she said, 
 
 "I thought, a few weeks ago, that he was down in 
 the garden under a bed of pansies ; but now I know he 
 is in heaven, where you and I will soon join him."
 
 WHY MRS. RADNOR FAINTED. 
 
 (247)
 
 WHY MRS. RADNOR FAINTED. 
 
 [OTJ have seen hazel eyes, have you not ? I 
 don't mean the quiet nut-brown ones, you meet 
 every day, but bona, fide hazel eyes, opaline 
 in their wonderful changes, that make you 
 wonder, when you turn away from them, what 
 color they will have assumed when you next look into 
 their depths; for such eyes have depths, sometimes 
 glowing emerald-like, with a steady, lambent flame, now 
 gleaming with a soft lustre like pearls, or melted into 
 sapphires by tears. 
 
 Such eyes had Mrs. Kadnor, cold, beautiful woman 
 that she was ; insensible, I was about to say, only I re- 
 member her fainting at sight of a pond-lily. How well 
 I recollect the day ! There was a party of us passing 
 the midsummer at the old Richmond farm, a few miles 
 
 from ; Mr. and Mrs. Ferdinand Kadnor among the 
 
 rest. The latter, a haughty statuesque woman, with 
 
 nothing save her wonderful eyes to indicate anything 
 
 approaching a heart, lovely as a dream, yet with 
 
 22 (249)
 
 250 Why Mrs. Radnor fainted. 
 
 beauty that repelled even in its fascination. Such hair, 
 too, as she had, rolling in golden ripples down fo her 
 slencTer feet; fine as silk, it was brown in the shade, 
 but glowed and intensified in the light till it seemed as if 
 a thousand stray sunbeams were imprisoned in the radi- 
 ant mass. We always called her the u Princess with the 
 golden locks." You remember her in the fairytale, do 
 you not '? That one, I mean, whose hair was the wonder 
 and admiration of the whole world, and whose lovers 
 delighted to bind themselves with fetters so exquisite; 
 yet when they strove playfully to throw them off, they 
 found themselves with gyves and manacles of steel, un- 
 der which they were powerless. . 
 
 Mr. Kadnor was urbane and gentlemanly; but, pos- 
 sessing only half a soul, he divided the interest of that 
 equally between admiring his own person and annoying 
 Mrs. Radnor by his attentions. 
 
 It was a sultry July day, and we were all of us on the 
 rose-terrace back of the house, some dozing, I pre- 
 tending to read, though all the time watching the 
 " Princess " furtively from the shelter of my book. 
 
 She had a pile of cushions spread with a scarlet shawl, 
 and, like an Eastern beauty, lay languidly upon them. 
 Her dress of palest blue was open at the throat, and her 
 hands toyed listlessly with the heavy cord that confined 
 her waist. There was a blush-rose tint on her usually 
 pale cheek, and her hair, half escaped from its little net, 
 lay like flecks of gold on the scarlet cover. I think I 
 never saw repose, utter and perfect, before.
 
 Why Mrs. Radnor fainted. 251 
 
 " Down through her limbs a drooping languor crept, 
 Her head a little bent, and on her mouth 
 A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded moon 
 In a still water." 
 
 Suddenly the charmed silence was broken, for round 
 the corner of the house came Mr. Kadnor, with his arms 
 filled with superb water-lilies, which he threw in a fra- 
 grant shower over his wife. He was saluted with excla- 
 mations of wonder and delight, and while he was reply- 
 ing, I had leisure to observe his wife. 
 
 The change was frightful: an ashen pallor had 
 spread itself over her face, she was panting violently 
 for breath, and, at the same time, attempting to clasp 
 both hands before her eyes. I cried aloud and sprang 
 towards her, but it was too late. 
 
 Mrs. Eadnor had fainted ! 
 
 At the same time, Anne Kichmond threw herself upon 
 her knees beside her, and, hastily gathering the snowy 
 flowers from her dress and bosom, where they had fall- 
 en, thrust them into Mr. Radnor's arms, saying hurried- 
 ly, as she did so, 
 
 " Pray, pray, take them away, sir, or your wife will die." 
 
 He obeyed blankly, and together Anne and I applied 
 the usual restoratives, and, after some minutes, were re- 
 warded by a faint color in her lips, then a quivering of 
 the mouth, and I heard her murmur faintly, "I saw 
 him again, Anne. Oh, those dreadful flowers ! " 
 
 Then her eyes opened, those wonderful eyes, that 
 were then almost startling in their blackness. She looked
 
 252 Why Mrs. Radnor Fainted. 
 
 wildly round her for a single second, and, catching 
 sight of me, was herself again, haughty, self-sustained 
 as before, even though lying helpless as a child on Anne 
 Richmond's arms. 
 
 And, after all, pride is better for a fainting woman than 
 all the sal volatile in the world, thought I, receiving her 
 languidly uttered thanks, and retreating. 
 
 We saw no more of Mrs. Eadnor that day. Her hus- 
 band talked loudly of the extreme heat; and no one but 
 the two who had observed the expression of her face 
 when the perfume of the lilies first met her senses, knew 
 anything to the contrary. As for me, I was restless and 
 unquiet. There had been from the first a nameless 
 something about Mrs. Eadnor which had excited my 
 deepest interest, and now my imagination was busy. 
 One thing the painful scene of the morning had con- 
 vinced me of, and that was, that some time in the past 
 she had been quickened into life by the breath of love, 
 and the flowers had played a terrible part in over- 
 whelming her with memories possibly long buried in 
 the deepest recesses of her heart; for I acknowledged 
 it Mrs. Eadnor had a heart. I never doubted it from 
 the moment in which her face changed from its quiet 
 repose into that torturing expression of fear that it 
 wore when she fainted. 
 
 " Anne," I said that evening to Miss Eichmond, as I 
 drew her into my chamber after the party had separated 
 for the night, " tell me something of Mrs. Eadnor. I am 
 sure you are in some way concerned in her past."
 
 Why Mrs. Radnor fainted. 253 
 
 " Yes," she answered, with a little, fluttering sigh; 
 " there is one page of her life that no one living has 
 ever read but myself. Perhaps I do wrong in consent- 
 ing to turn it for you; but it may be a warning to you, 
 child. To-morrow we will go down to the lake together, 
 and I will tell you what has changed Mrs. Eadnor, from 
 the brightest, sunniest girl that ever lived, to the breath- 
 ing statue that she has been for ten years." 
 
 She sighed again, as she kissed my cheek, and then I 
 heard her footsteps die away in the long corridor. 
 
 My room was in the second story, and directly over 
 those occupied by the Kadnors, which opened on a bal- 
 cony leading down by a little flight of steps to the lawn. 
 
 The night was sultry and still. All the usual bustle 
 and stir of retiring had ceased, and, extinguishing my 
 candle, I curled myself on the broad window-seat, 
 watching the stars that seemed to smile in the hazy at- 
 mosphere. It was late, nearly midnight, I think; and 
 I drank with delight the heavy fragrance which that 
 hour always seems to draw from the heliotrope, great 
 masses of which grew under my windows. I do not 
 know how long I sat there. Waking dreams, such as 
 flit lightly in the tender stillness of summer nights, 
 wooed me with delicious repose. I fancied myself be- 
 neath Eastern skies, and the faint stir of a bird in a 
 neighboring tree seemed to me the pluming of a bulbul's 
 wing; and through the gilded lattice of the harem two 
 starry eyes and they were Mrs. Radnor's glittered 
 and gleamed. The soft running of a brook through 
 22*
 
 254 Why Mrs. Radnor fainted. 
 
 the grounds was the lapping of waves against Venice 
 stones. I heard the twinkle of a guitar, and, framed 
 by carved, gray stone work, her rippling golden hair 
 stirred liTT^e night-breeze. 
 
 Then everything faded, and I slept a moment or an 
 hour, I cannot say which, so softly had the hours 
 passed in softest sandals, and it was with a start that 
 I sat upright and heard, with a keen thrill of fear, a 
 faint click, as of a drawn bolt, and immediately the dis- 
 tant bell of St. Michael's pealing out. 
 
 One two; and with the dying of the second stroke 
 there was a rustling sound beneath rny window, and 
 then a shuddering whisper, " My God ! my God ! 
 have mercy upon me I " 
 
 Shrouded by a half-closed blind, I peered out, and, 
 kneeling on the balcony below, I saw a white figure il- 
 luminated by the strange, weird light of a waning moon. 
 The face was uplifted, and the expression might have 
 been that worn by Maria Therese in the solitude of her 
 chamber when the Archduchess Josepha died. 
 
 I drew back, it seemed like profanity for any but 
 the God to whom she appealed to witness her despair, 
 for it was Mrs. Radnor. I heard a long, deep-drawn 
 sigh, a footstep, and then the silky tones of her husband. 
 
 " My love, why will you ? The dew is very heavy." 
 Then a stir and the sound of a closing door. 
 
 I shivered in the ghostly light that had crept into my 
 window, and, softly closing my blinds, I laid down to 
 sleep if I could.
 
 Why Mrs. Radnor Fainted. 255 
 
 The first person I saw, on entering the breakfast-room 
 the next morning, was Mrs. Eadnor, pale as the muslin 
 wrapper she wore, but as coldly self-contained as usual. 
 I felt the passionate sympathy, which had taken firm 
 hold on me since the scenes of the previous night, almost 
 vanish before her languidly uttered replies to my inqui- 
 ries for her health. It was only in watching the droop- 
 ing corners of her rarely beautiful mouth and the violet 
 circles beneath the wonderful eyes, that I could connect 
 the haughty being before me with the utterer of the 
 despairing cry of the night before. 
 
 The day wore on slowly enough to me, and it was 
 only when the lengthened shadows on the terrace, and 
 Miss Richmond, equipped for her walk, greeted my eyes, 
 that my impatience subsided. 
 
 The path led us through a shady grove of pines, th%|t 
 sighed mournfully as one passed through them, then 
 across a sloping interval made green by recent rains, 
 and so down through a fringe of alders to a little seat 
 close by the margin of a charming lake on which myri- 
 ads of water-lilies were closing their cups of incense. 
 
 "Sit here," said Anne, pointing to a place at her 
 Bide. 
 
 " It is not always pleasant to think or speak of the 
 past," she began, after a few moments' silence, " al- 
 though day by day its scenes and actors appear to us. 
 There are some memories in every heart that thrill us 
 with grief unutterable, and when you know that one per- 
 son in the story which I shall tell you was dear to me as
 
 256 Why Mrs. Radnor Fainttd. 
 
 my own sooL you win not wonder if my fip falters or I 
 fifl to dweD on the more painful portions of h." 
 
 Then for the first time I was aware of another un- 
 written heart-history, and knew why the soft lips and 
 eyes of the woman beside me had so often uttered their 
 fatal no. 
 
 -Ten years ago." die said, u oar boose was foil of 
 1,111 nlii. and among them was Eleanor Orne, the most 
 paifatilj beautiful girl I ever beheld. Fancy Mr*. Rad- 
 nor, younger by as many years, with a bewildering 
 smOe ever ready to play around the lovely month, with 
 expressions as rapidly following thunmJyes in her eyes 
 as clouds on an April day. and you can form a faint idea 
 of her lorefiness. 
 
 ~ There was also a young sfndmt of divinity, with an 
 qpe as dear as a star and a soul pure as prayer itself. 
 Proud and calm he was; but it was a noble pride that 
 clothed him as with a garment, and a gracious ralimw** 
 resulting from a vaulting intellect, subdued and chas- 
 tened by firmest faith. 
 
 - He had been fond of me in a way. but from the night 
 that Eleanor came floating down the long F"^*Tfft, attired 
 in some diaphanous gray that streamed around her like 
 mist, I knew how it would be. I marked, with one 
 great heart-throb, the perfect delight that flashed in his 
 dark eyes as they rested upon her face and form. 
 
 - After that they were always together. In the morn- 
 ings he was reading to her as she worked; on after- 
 noons, rocking together in the little boat on the lake;
 
 Why Mrs. Radnor Fainted. 257 
 
 and then, in the purple twilight, Bringing dreamy German 
 music, of which they were both passionately food. 
 
 "I soon knew that James Alexander loved her. I read 
 it in every glance, hi every tone. Bat Eleanor ? I was 
 not sore. Watch her as narrowly as I would, I could not 
 see that the rose in her cheek became a deeper pink when 
 he approached, or that her eyes were raised more tenderly 
 to him than to a dozen others who sought her smites. 
 
 "There had been rumors of Eleanors engagement and 
 approaching marriage, which had drifted to me from 
 her city home; but, when I saw her day by day allow- 
 ing him to become more attached to her, for she could 
 not fafl to perceive it all, I rejected the rumor, and 
 with it the impulse which had prompted me to repeat it 
 to James, that he might, if not already too late, be upon 
 his guard. 
 
 " At last the end came. I dozed one day on a soft hi 
 an inner room, and watched with delicious delight my 
 dream of fair woman that a dark-velvet lounging-chair 
 brought out in clear relief. Eleanor sat there, with 
 downcast eyes and clasped hands. Suddenly a step, 
 hurried and joyous hi its very lightness, sounded hi the 
 hall; the door opened and closed again, and Alexander 
 stood before her with an open letter in his hand. 
 
 " ' See,' he said, speaking rapidly, * it has come at 
 last, and I may speak. It is a can to one of the larg- 
 est parishes in your own city, and may say, what 
 you must have known for weeks past, that I love you, 
 Eleanor, deeply, devotedly; that I want you. My
 
 258 Why Mrs. Radnor Fainted. 
 
 darling, tell me that you are not indifferent to me, 
 that you will be my wife.' 
 
 "It was too late for me to move; and something 
 perhaps it was a kind of dull despair kept me motion- 
 less, with eyes riveted upon the group. 
 
 " ' Speak to me, Eleanor,' he said, more eagerly, bend- 
 ing over her as he spoke. 
 
 "I saw her face flush, and an almost imperceptible 
 shrinking from him, that made him quickly draw back. 
 
 " ' Speak, Miss Orne, Eleanor, I implore you.' 
 
 " ' Oh, why have you said this to me ? ' she answered, 
 faintly. ' I cannot hear you, Mr. Alexander. I am to 
 be married next month.' 
 
 " I saw him reel for an instant as one would under a 
 heavy blow, and heard a deep sigh almost a groan 
 burst from him ; then a silence so long and so profound 
 that I could hear my heart beat At last he spoke, in a 
 voice husky and changed, 
 
 "'Forgive me. I did not mean to offend; but God 
 knows what a mercy it would have been if I could have 
 known this before. I may touch your hand once, 
 may I not ? And you will look up into my face ? No, 
 not that ! Grant me this, at least then, before our 
 long parting.' And he bent and kissed one of the sunny 
 curls that streamed over the chair. Then I saw him 
 raise one hand over her as in benediction, and, in an- 
 other moment, he was gone. I looked at Eleanor. 
 She had risen from her seat, and moved a step or two 
 towards the door.
 
 Why Mrs. Radnor fainted. 259 
 
 " ' O James, James, I love you ! ' she said, piteously ; 
 and then I had just time to break her falL 
 
 " An hour later, I met him on the door-step. * I am 
 glad to have seen you,' he said slowly, ' and to thank 
 you for your kindness; for I am going away. You will 
 be good to Tier, Anne, for my sake, will you not?' 
 
 " He turned from me, and passed down the walk. I 
 watched him until a sharp turn hid him from my sight. 
 I never saw him afterwards alive. 
 
 " The next day it rained, and the next; and it was not 
 until the third day that Eleanor and I took our usual 
 walk. As we left the house, she suggested that we 
 shape our way towards the lake. Agreeing, we walked 
 on slowly, and I tried to make James Alexander the 
 subject of our talk. At first she evaded me; and, when 
 at last she found my persistence was not in any other 
 way to be turned aside, said, 
 
 "' It is an unpleasant subject to me, dear Anne. I fear 
 I have much to blame myself for. I suffer enough; for, 
 in rejecting his love, I shut my eyes on a life that would 
 have been a continual delight, to open them on one from 
 which my very soul shrinks abhorrently, and yet to 
 which I am solemnly pledged.' 
 
 " ' But it may not yet be too late,' I said, eagerly; for 
 God knows I loved James Alexander with no selfish 
 love. 
 
 " ' Yes, it is too late,' she replied mournfully. ' I shall 
 never allude to it again, Anne ; but I tell you now, that
 
 260 Why Mrs. Radnor Fainted. 
 
 I do not and can never love Mr. Radnor; but there arc 
 family reasons that make the sacrifice of my hand 
 a necessity. I never realized, until within the last 
 few weeks, that it teas such a sacrifice. I have been 
 so happy, that I dared not break the spell by telling 
 him the truth. And somehow the future seemed very 
 far; and I did not dream that this summer would ever 
 end.' 
 
 " Then there was silence between us for a space. At 
 last she spoke again, 
 
 " ' I hope he will not suflfer long. Tell him some time, 
 Anne, what I have told you. He will not quite hate me, 
 perhaps, then, if he knows that I was not drawing him 
 on to gratify a foolish coquetry, but loved and suffered 
 like himself 
 
 " I was about to reply, but she laid her hand on my 
 mouth. 
 
 " ' N"o,' she said. ' Let the subject go now forever. 
 And no one will dream by-and-by how fair a love lies 
 buried beneath my laces and jewels; or that, in the life 
 of the noted man that he will one day surely become, is 
 a romance that belongs to a dead past. It will all be 
 the same a century hence. What does it matter after 
 all?' 
 
 " But her words ended with a sigh that contrasted 
 strangely with the forced lightness of her tone. 
 
 " Just then we came out of the grove, and could see far 
 off the little waves of the lake dancing in the morning 
 sunlight. I paused a moment to pick some late wild 

 
 Why Mrs. Radnor Fainted. 261 
 
 flowers, while Eleanor walked on quickly and disap- 
 peared among the alders that fringed the lake. I was 
 following her slowly, when suddenly I heard one wild, 
 thrilling cry, and then my name three times repeated. 
 1 flew almost down to the water, and there I saw Elea- 
 nor unconscious; and, close to the shore, among the lilies, 
 white and pure as their own petals, a face upturned 
 to the sky, swaying gently with the motion of the 
 water. I need not tell you whose." Anne faltered. 
 
 " Do not go on," I said, with my own eyes and voice 
 full of tears. 
 
 She raised her head quickly. 
 
 " I had schooled myself to it, dear, before I came, and 
 I must finish. I am telling you of another's life, not 
 mine. 
 
 " Then there was a brain fever for Eleanor, that no 
 one believed she would ever rally from, in which she was 
 either unconscious, or else singing snatches of German 
 songs, with a pathos that was heart-rending. 
 
 " It was remarkable that neither to her mother nor to 
 any one who watched over her did her words ever be- 
 tray anything that could connect her illness with any- 
 thing more than the bare horror of the discovery she 
 made. She was married the next spring; and when I 
 saw her, a month afterward, I should never, save for 
 merest outline and coloring of beauty, have recognized 
 her. Until last night, the past has never been alluded 
 to by either of us. Then she confessed to me, that dur- 
 ing the last ten years her life has been haunted by a per- 
 23
 
 262 Why Mrs. Ragnor Fainted. 
 
 petual remorse. The sun has set, dear, we will go 
 home." 
 
 It was dusk when we crossed the pine grove, and the 
 branches of the trees seemed, to my quickened imagi- 
 nation, to be singing a sad refrain to the story I had 
 heard. "We walked slowly, Anne with head uplifted 
 and a serene look upon her fair face that made me real- 
 ize the refiner's work. 
 
 As we drew near the house there came forth a roll- 
 ing symphony from the parlor organ, and then a voice 
 that I had never heard before, in the Agnus Dei of the 
 Twelfth Mass. 
 
 "We paused, and Anne said quietly, " She has never 
 sung since he died until now." 
 
 "We waited until the pure, pathetic tones had died 
 away. Silence and the spirit of the hour was upon us. 
 Overhead the large, calm stars hung low and bright. A 
 gleam of light in Mrs. Radnor's rooms flashed for an in- 
 stant, and disappeared; and a white figure came out 
 upon the balcony of her apartment. 
 
 " Kyrie Eleison," said Anne, in a hushed voice. " Let 
 us go in."
 
 UNDER A CLOUD. 
 
 (263)
 
 UNDER A CLOUD. 
 
 
 bitter cold day in January, four years ago, 
 I had occasion to wait for a street-car in Chi- 
 cago, on one of those aside lines where the cars 
 pass but once in every ten or fifteen minutes. 
 There was a German lager-bier saloon close 
 by, and I entered it for shelter. As I stood by the 
 stove, enjoying the grateful warmth, I observed near 
 me a young man, in very seedy apparel, engaged in 
 reading the Staats-Zeitung. Something in the air of the 
 young man awakened my curiosity, and led me to ad- 
 dress him. Although reading a German newspaper, he 
 was not a German in appearance, and I put to him the 
 question, " Sind Sie Deutsch ? " by way of experiment. 
 
 " No, sir," he replied, " I am not German, but I speak 
 and read the language." 
 
 I drew a chair near him, as he laid aside the news- 
 paper, with the air of one willing to enter into conver- 
 sation. 
 
 " Where did you pick up your German ? " I asked. 
 " I picked it up," said theyoung man, with an air of 
 23 * (265)
 
 266 Under a Cloud. 
 
 some pride in the statement, " where I picked up my 
 Latin and Greek, at college." 
 
 At this I ran my eye over him curiously. He had 
 not the appearance of a scholar. 
 
 " You look surprised," said he. " Despite my present 
 appearance, and the place you find me in, I am a gradu- 
 ate ; but at present, I am under a cloud." 
 
 " So I should imagine." 
 
 I also imagined that the young man was probably 
 shiftless, and no doubt addicted to liquor; but I did not 
 say so. As if he read my thoughts, he spoke again: 
 
 " People are always ready to think ill of a seedy man, 
 I suppose. Probably you think me a good-for-nothing, 
 and would give me some valuable advice about hanging 
 around beer-saloons; but the fact is, I am an employe 
 of this establishment." 
 
 He spoke with a bitter irony, that ill-concealed a sort 
 of shame in the confession. 
 
 " May I ask in what capacity ? " said I. 
 
 " You may, sir; and I may answer or not, I suppose. 
 I think I will decline to answer. As I said, I am under 
 a cloud. I am not proud of my employment, but I do 
 what I do because I can't do better, and idleness is 
 synonymous with hunger and cold for me and mine." 
 
 " You are married, then ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," with sudden reserve. f . . 
 
 " Don't be offended at my inquisitiveness," said I. " I 
 spoke to you first out of mere curiosity, it is true; but 
 I speak now out of interest.in you. If I could help you, 
 I would. There is my card."
 
 Under a Cloud. 267 
 
 He took it with a respectful inclination of the head. 
 
 "I've heard of you," said he, as he glanced at the 
 name. " I can't give you my card, sir, because I don't 
 own such a thing." He smiled. " My name is Brock 
 St John." 
 
 " I hear the car coming," said I. " I'll see you again, 
 Mr. St. John. I don't set up for a philanthropist; but 
 I like to do a- good turn when I can. Good-morning." 
 
 And I went my own way. 
 
 Henry Kingsley, or rather a character of his crea- 
 tion, in one of his novels, remarks that he suspects 
 there is some of the poetical faculty about him, because 
 he is accustomed to walk out of nights when anything 
 goes wrong. 
 
 This is also my case. 
 
 To " fetch a walk" about the streets, late in the 
 evening, has long been a favorite antidote for trouble 
 with me. When the night is stormy, the value of this 
 remedy for fretting cares is tenfold increased. There is 
 an exhilarating sense of power in overcoming the op- 
 posing forces of the elements, and breasting along at a 
 brisk pace against a furious storm of sleet or rain. As 
 Leigh Hunt said, you have a feeling of respect for your 
 legs under such circumstances ; you admire their tough- 
 ness as they propel you along in the teeth of the storm. 
 As your blood begins to warm up, and to whirl through 
 your veins with an exhilaration beside which that of 
 wine is tame and effeminate, the " blues " that have 
 been gibing you vanish like magic. Always, after such
 
 268 Under a Cloud. 
 
 a bout, I return home and " sleep like a top," no matter 
 what discomforts or sorrows have been running their 
 sleep-dispelling race through my head before starting 
 out. 
 
 On the night of the day that I met St. John I started 
 out about eleven o'clock for such a walk. The winds 
 were holding high carnival that night, and a fierce 
 storm of mingled hail and rain swept through the almost 
 deserted streets. I forged along (as the sailors say), with 
 my head down, block after block, fighting the forces of 
 nature, with the same pleasure that Victor Hugo's hero 
 felt, no doubt, in like effort. True, my fight was to his 
 as a cock-fight is to an encounter of lions ; but the limit 
 of power is the limit of delight in overcoming in any 
 case. The boy who declaims " the Roman Soldier " 
 at school to the rapture of his gaping audience is as 
 happy in his achievement as the tragedian who thrills a 
 theatreful. Gilliatt conquered storms, and so did I; he 
 was on the high seas, and I was in the streets of Chi- 
 cago. 
 
 Sounds of music and dancing fell on my ear. They 
 came from the beer-saloon of the morning. Curiosity 
 impelled me to enter. 
 
 The air was reeking with tobacco-smoke and the 
 fumes of .lager-bier. The seats about the half-dozen 
 tables were crowded with Teutonic guzzlers; and, at 
 the lower part of the room there was a cleared space 
 where a half-dozen couples were whirling in a waltz 
 with that thorough abandon which characterizes your
 
 Under a Cloud. 269 
 
 German in his national dance. On a slightly raised 
 platform against the wall was a band composed of a 
 violin, a clarionet, and a trombone. 
 
 The violinist was my acquaintance of the morning. 
 
 He caught sight of me as I elbowed my way toward 
 the dancing-floor, and blushed violently. Then an ex- 
 pression of angry pride settled on his countenance, and he 
 continued his playing with stolid indifference to my gaze. 
 
 When the dance was over (and St. John kept up the 
 music till the surprised Teutons who played the wind- 
 instruments were sheer worn-out with their prolonged 
 exertions), I went up to the young man, and shook 
 hands with him. 
 
 " At work, eh V " I remarked, with a miserable effort 
 to seem cheerful and easy. 
 
 " Yes, sir. You have found me out. You know now 
 how I keep the wolf from my door." 
 
 " Yes, Mr. St. John; and I do not forget that it is to 
 keep the wolf from your door. Still, I hope you are 
 thoroughly misplaced here, I hope you are ! " 
 
 He grasped my hand with a quick, strong pressure. 
 
 " I must prove to you that I am, that's all," said he ; 
 " come to to where I live, to-morrow, and let me tell 
 you the whole story." 
 
 He took my pencil and wrote the address in my note- 
 book. 
 
 " To-morrow afternoon," said I, " I will call." 
 
 The next day I found my way to the wretched tene- 
 ment house in North Clark street, where St. John lived.
 
 270 Under a Cloud. 
 
 and climbed three pair of stairs to the door of his room. 
 I rapped, and the young man opened the door. 
 
 I have seen a good deal of poverty in my day, and I 
 was prepared to find it here, as I did. But I was not 
 prepared for the sight of such a beautiful young face as 
 that which met ray gaze here, and to the possessor of 
 which St. John introduced me as his wife. She seemed 
 like some little girl that was lost. The unmistakable air 
 of the true lady showed itself in every detail of her 
 dress and manner, in the small, white collar at the 
 neck of the calico dress, in the smooth-banded hair that 
 matched the brown eyes, in the quiet demeanor that told 
 of natural and unconscious self-respect. It showed it- 
 self, too, in the perfect neatness of the room, in which 
 there was a cheerful, home-like air, despite the poor and 
 barren nature of its furnishings. The room was kitchen 
 and bedroom, dining-room and sitting-room, in one; but 
 the bed was smooth and clean, and the little cooking- 
 stove was without spot. 
 
 Mrs. St. John was engaged in the unpoetic occupation 
 of mending her husband's only coat. B[e was in his 
 shirt-sleeves. 
 
 " Aggie expected to get the coat done before our guest 
 came," said St. John, with a smile. " If you are at all 
 particular, I'll put it on with the needie sticking in it, 
 and she can finish it after you are gone. But I am ac- 
 customed to sitting in my shirt-sleeves." 
 
 " So am I," was my reply; and, accordingly, I pulkui 
 off my own coat, and sat in my shirt-sleeves, too. lu 
 the act, my cigar-case fell out of my pocket.
 
 Under a Cloud. 271 
 
 " Light a cigar, sir, if you like," said St. John, with a 
 brisk assumption of the airs of a genial host; " my wife 
 don't allow me to smoke, but my guests always do. She 
 is fond of cigars, is Aggie." 
 
 The little wife looked up with a demure and childlike 
 air. 
 
 " He never offers to smoke, sir," said she, " because " 
 
 " Because I can't afford it," put in St. John. " I was 
 a great smoker in college; but those were my wild days. 
 Thank you." 
 
 The last remark was in acknowledgment of an offered 
 cigar. We were soon puffing great cloud-wreaths to- 
 ward the ceiling, and an air of restraint that had rested 
 on us at first, despite our efforts to avoid it, was speed- 
 ily vanished. Cigars are social. 
 
 " And now, sir," said St. John, " you shall hear the 
 story I promised you. I hope it wont bore you." 
 
 " If it does 111 cry out," said I. 
 
 The little wife laughed quietly. 
 
 "I graduated; I married; I came to Chicago," began 
 St. John, sententiously. 
 
 " Feni, vidi, trici," said I. 
 
 "Quite the contrary; I was conquered. I had that 
 idea which young men from the east, just out of college, 
 are apt to have, that in this great western city there 
 was a comparative lack of intellectual culture, and that 
 a man of my education must speedily and easily get 
 into a position of prominence, where my talents would 
 earn me a fine living. But 1 very soon found where
 
 272 Under a Cloud. 
 
 my mistake lay. I had not been bred to work, real, 
 practical, marketable work, either mental or physical. 
 The professions were open to me, as to any other be- 
 ginner, nothing more. I could not step out of college 
 into a lucrative practice at the bar; but I could enter a 
 law-office, and study. So of the other professions. If I 
 had any one idea more prominent than another, it was 
 that I could secure an editorial situation at once on one 
 of the newspapers here. I was surprised to find that 
 there was absolutely no demand for such services as I 
 had to offer. 
 " ' Do you know anything about the newspaper busi- 
 
 ^ 
 
 ness ? ' was the first question put to me, by the first 
 publisher to whom I made application. 
 
 " That was the very last question that I had expected 
 to have asked of me. Of course I imagined myself com- 
 petent, or I should not have applied for editorial em- 
 ployment; but I knew the publisher meant, Had I had 
 actual experience on the press ? I felt so sure of my- 
 self that I was tempted to answer him ' Yes,' but the 
 fact is I was never brought up with such a reverence for 
 the truth, as to always keep at a respectful distance from 
 it; so I told him I had not, but I could quickly learn. 
 
 (> ' We are in no need of students,' said he; ' and, even 
 if we took you to teach you, your pay would not settle 
 your washing-bill.' 
 
 " One editor was good enough to let me try my hand 
 at writing a political article. I sat down in his sanctum 
 and went to work. At the end of two hours I handed
 
 Under a Cloud, 273 
 
 him what I had written, quite confident that I had set- 
 tled the question of utility. It was an essay that 
 would have brought me honor at college. He read it 
 and smiled. 
 
 " ' I don't want to hurt your feelings at all," said he, 
 1 but you have been two hours about a piece of work 
 that a ready writer would knock off in half an hour, and 
 now it is done it is good for nothing. You make the 
 mistake so many have made before you, that an editor 
 does not need to be bred to his business. My alma ma- 
 ter was a printing-office,' said he, proudly, ' and I crept 
 up the ladder round by round. When I commenced 
 editorial labor, I dropped type-setting, at which I earned 
 two dollars a day, to handle the reporter's pencil at 
 seven dollars a week. If you think you could do any- 
 thing as a reporter, I'll show you our Mr. Pyke, the 
 local editor.' 
 
 " Mr. Pyke was a rough one. 
 
 " ' Posted around town,' said he. 
 
 " I told him I was a new-comer. 
 
 " ' Know short-hand ? ' 
 
 "'No, sir.' 
 
 " ' What line are you strongest in ? ' 
 
 " What line ? ' said I, not exactly understanding. 
 
 " l Yes, what line ? Speeches, fancy-work, police, 
 sensations, picking up items around town or what ? ' 
 
 "' I really don't know,' said I; 'I've never had any 
 experience, practically, in the newspaper business.' 
 
 " At this Mr. Pyke turned round on me with a queer 
 look in his face. 24
 
 274 Under a Cloud. 
 
 " ' Oh, that's it,' said he ; ' you want to work at a 
 trade you haven't served an apprenticeship to. There ! 
 it's the old story. If you'll go up in the composing- 
 room, they'll give you a stick and put you to setting 
 type, I reckon. You better try it. Go and ask for our 
 foreman, Mr. Buckingham, and tell him I sent you, 
 will you ? Why, you couldn't tell where the e box is ! ' 
 
 " The man's manner was not so rude as his language, 
 sir. He seemed perfectly good-natured, and was scrib- 
 ling away with a lead-pencil all the while he was talk- 
 ing, much as if he were a writing-machine." 
 
 " Doubtless he is, to a great degree," said I; " that is 
 just where the apprenticeship does its work. I know 
 Pyke, and I've seen him write a column of city matter, 
 carrying on conversations with half-a-dozen different 
 people who dropped in during the time, without inter- 
 rupting him at all. But I don't mean to interrupt you; 
 go on, please." 
 
 " Well, sir," St. John continued, " before I had thor- 
 oughly learned the lesson that I finally learned so well, 
 I was almost literally penniless. Such had been my 
 high confidence in the easy and prosperous path before 
 me in Chicago, that when I came here I took board at a 
 first-class hotel, with my wife. I had very little money, 
 and one day I waked up to the consciousness that I had 
 less than five dollars remaining of that little, and still no 
 work. Two hideous gulfs yawned before me, starva- 
 tion and debt. My horror of the one is scarcely greater 
 than my horror of the other. Debt converted my father
 
 Under a Cloud. 275 
 
 from a well-to-do man into a bankrupt, and my mother, 
 who owns the little that is left of our old homestead in 
 Massachusetts, was and is in no condition to help me. I 
 would beg in the streets, sir, before I would look to my 
 poor mother for help, after the long years of self-denial 
 she practised to get me through college. My wife is an 
 orphan. You may judge the color my future was tak- 
 ing on. I left the Tremont House, and, falling at once 
 from the highest to the lowest style of living in apart- 
 ments, came here. I had no confidence left, now, in that 
 future which had before seemed, so foolish and inexperi- 
 enced was I, a broad and flowery path for talent and 
 education to tread. I never intend to whine over any- 
 thing in this world if I can help it, but I can assure you 
 this was a pretty dark old world to Brock St. John 
 about that time. The prospect of earning a dollar a day 
 would have cheered me wonderfully. I cared more on 
 account of Aggie than myself, of course. A man can 
 bear ups and downs, kicks, cold shoulders, and an empty 
 stomach, if he is alone; but the thought that I have 
 dragged her down to this is almost unbearable at 
 times." 
 
 " You have not dragged me, Brock," spoke up the little 
 wife; "I came of my own accord ! " 
 
 " That you did, Aggie," said the husband, his eyes 
 moistening; "I am slandering you. But to go on: The 
 day after we moved in here, and set up house-keeping in 
 careful preparation for the cold winter coming (Ihad 
 to pawn clothing to get these poor goods," he added,
 
 276 Under a Cloud. 
 
 looking about the room with a smile), "the German 
 musician, who lives next door, came in to ask us if his 
 practising on a trombone annoyed us. We were so 
 hungry for a friendly face just then, that we would have 
 let the good-natured German blow his trombone through 
 our transom-window after that exhibition of fellow-feel- 
 ing. That afternoon, I dropped in to see him, in contin- 
 uance of the acquaintance. There was a violin hanging 
 on the wall, and I took it down and played a tune on it. 
 
 That was my introduction to my first situation in Chica- 
 go. Stunim got me my place at the beer-saloon; and so, 
 through the knowledge of an art which has always been 
 to me nothing more than an amusement, I get enough to 
 live, in this time when all the hard-earned culture, which 
 cost me so much labor, fails me utterly. I am thankful 
 for this, heartily thankful; but I don't need to tell you 
 sir, how it galls me to do this work, to sit three or 
 four hours of every evening in a dense and vulgar at- 
 mosphere, fiddling for my daily bread. No wonder I am 
 seedy; no wonder I get to look like a loafer, listless, 
 without pride, spite of Aggie's wifely care. If I knew 
 an honest trade, I should be a happy man. I would 
 gladly barter my knowledge of Latin, Greek, and Ger- 
 man for the knowledge of type-setting." 
 
 " So that you could prove to Pyke that you know the 
 e box from the x box ? " queried I. 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " But you talk the words of bitterness when you talk 
 in that way, St John. You can barter your knowledge
 
 Under a Cloud. 277 
 
 of German for coafc, and keep it too. Have you ever 
 sought for pupils ! " 
 
 " Only a little. I have no acquaintances, you know. 
 My only way to get pupils was to advertise, of course. 
 I tried it three days, and got not a solitary reply. There 
 are scores of teachers advertising. It seemed useless 
 for me to waste money in that way." 
 
 " Well," said I, " I think I can set you in a way of 
 getting up a class. My own German is very rusty, and 
 I will be pupil number one. Then I know of two or three 
 friends who want to study the language. I think we 
 can get you up a class among us." 
 
 He made me no protestation of gratitude, such 
 protestations are usually humbug, but I saw his glad- 
 ness in his face. 
 
 The little wife sat squeezing her fingers for joy. 
 
 Before a month had passed, St. John had a large class 
 in German, and bade adieu to fiddling. He proved an 
 excellent teacher. Long before I left Chicago to resume 
 my residence in this city, he had got nicely out from 
 under his cloud, and was living in a snug house in the 
 "West Division. 
 
 There was a little baby playing on the floor at his 
 house last summer when I called to see him, on my way 
 to Lake Superior. That baby bears my name, I am 
 proud to 'say. 
 
 24*
 
 COMING FROM THE FRONT. 
 
 (279)
 
 COMING FROM THE FRONT. 
 
 "HEAD-QUARTERS, DEP'T AND ARMY OF THK TENNESSEE. 
 
 " East Point, Georgia, September 22, 1864. 
 " SPECIAL ORDERS. 
 " No. 214. 
 
 [EXTRACT.] 
 
 "XI. Having tendered his resignation, the following-named 
 officer is honorably discharged from the military service of the 
 United States, with condition that he shall receive no final pay- 
 ments until he satisfies the Pay Department that he is not indebted 
 to the Government. 
 
 "1st Lieut. , Ills. Vol. InPtry. 
 
 " By order of Maj. Gen'l 0. 0. Howard. 
 
 " (Signed) W. T. CLARK, Ass't Adft Gen'l." 
 
 of that ! After forty-one months of 
 hard-tack and hard marching, interspersed with 
 enough fighting to satisfy the stomach of an 
 ordinary man; after so long an experience of 
 the beautiful uncertainty of army life; after 
 polluting, with the invading heel of my brogan, the sa- 
 cred soil qf several of our erring sister States; after 
 passing many breezy and rainy nights under the dubious 
 shelter of shelter-tents; after sitting through long and 
 24* (281)
 
 282 Coming from the Front. 
 
 weary days in the furnace-heat of narrow and dirty 
 trenches ; after all this, I am at last permitted to bid 
 farewell to " the front," to go home and doff the honor- 
 able blue for the more sober garb of the " cit," and 
 drop into my wonted insignificance. That little "ex- 
 tract " has a sweeter perfume for me than any triple 
 extract for the handkerchief ever elaborated by the re- 
 nowned M. Lubin. It is fragrant with thoughts of 
 home and loved ones far away in the Northland, of 
 starry nights and starry eyes, of fluttering fans and 
 floating drapery, of morning naps unbroken by the 
 strident ra-tata-ta-ta of the bugle. I grow quite senti- 
 mental over it, notwithstanding the unpleasant condi- 
 tion with which it is qualified, and which involves such 
 a fearful amount of writing and figuring on mysterious 
 close-ruled blanks, and so much affidavit-making and 
 other swearing, especially at the blundering clerks in 
 the departments at Washington. 
 
 But this troubles me little now. Time enough to at- 
 tend to it after I get home. That is all I can think of, 
 home, and how to get there. 
 
 How I should get there, and whether or not I ever 
 would get there, were questions not easily solved. It is 
 the purpose of this sketch to show some of the beauties 
 of travelling on railroads that are under military con- 
 trol, and especially to set forth the writer's experience 
 in going from Atlanta to Nashville. , 
 
 It was a terribly hot morning when I reached the de- 
 pot at Atlanta, amid a cloud of dust and a maze of
 
 Coming from the Front. 283 
 
 wagons and mules and commissary stores and frantic 
 teamsters. I threw my valise- into the nearest car and 
 hastened to the Provost Marshal's office for my pass. 
 There was an anxious crowd already in waiting: resigned 
 officers and officers on leave; jolly, ragged privates on 
 furlough, eager to see their wives and babies; sutlers 
 and " sheap-cloding " men ; flaring demireps, seeking new 
 fields; mouldy citizens in clothes of antique cut, fawn- 
 ing abjectly and addressing every clerk and orderly as 
 "kernel;" dejected darkies, shoved aside by everybody, 
 with no " civil rights bill " to help them. While I was 
 waiting for my turn, the train kept me constantly wor- 
 ried by pulling up and backing down and threatening to 
 leave. At last I found an opportunity to exhibit my 
 " Extract," and, after reading it as slowly and carefully 
 as if it had been a dispatch in cipher, the Provost Mar- 
 shal very deliberately wrote a pass, read it over two or 
 three times, and then, looking at every one in the room 
 but me, asked " Who's this for ? " as if I had not been 
 standing at his elbow with my hand held out for half an 
 hour. 
 
 I left the official premises in a highly exasperated 
 state of mind. In the mean time the train had been 
 plunging backward and forward in a wild and aimless 
 way, and I was unable to find the car my valise was in. 
 After much wear and tear of muscle and temper and 
 trousers, in climbing over boxes and bales of hay, I dis- 
 covered it, and found that it had been taken possession 
 of by a crowd of roystering blades on furlough, whose
 
 284 Coming from the Front. 
 
 canteens were full and fragrant, and in whose talk and 
 manner appeared the signs of a boisterous night ahead, 
 with the possibility of a fight or two by way of special 
 diversion. As I was no longer in " the military service 
 of the United States," I was, of course, a peaceable 
 citizen, so I took my quarters in a more peaceful'car. It 
 was a cattle-car and not remarkably clean; but the com- 
 pany was good, and through the lattice-work around the 
 upper part of the car one could get a view of the sur- 
 rounding country; though looking through it gave one 
 a sensation very much like being in a guard-house. 
 
 " Will we never get off ? " was the question asked 
 dozens of times, asked of nobody in particular, and 
 answered by a chorus of incoherent growls from every- 
 body in general, while some humorous young man sug- 
 gested that if any one wanted to get off, he'd better do it 
 before the train started. 
 
 " Now we're off ! " 
 
 " No we're not," said the humorous young man, " but 
 it's more'n likely we will be before we get to Chatta- 
 nooga." 
 
 This was not particularly encouraging to timid travel- 
 lers, in a country abounding in guerrilleroes, and where 
 accident insurance companies were unknown. 
 
 Between Atlanta and Marietta we passed line after 
 line of defensive works, protected by abattis and cheuaux- 
 de-frise, feed-racks, I heard a bronzed veteran of ru- 
 ral antecedents call them, built by the rebels at night, 
 only to be abandoned on the next night to the great
 
 Coming from the Front. 285 
 
 Flanker. While they wrought line upon line, Sherman 
 and his boys in blue gave them precept upon precept, 
 here a little and there a great deal. All this rugged 
 country is historic ground. The tall, tufted pine-trees 
 stand as monuments of the unrecorded dead, and every 
 knoll and tangled ravine bears "witness to a bravery and 
 heroic endurance that has never been surpassed. 
 
 Leaving Marietta, deserted by its inhabitants and 
 turned into an immense hospital, we approached Kene- 
 saw, so lately crowned with cannon and alive with gray 
 coats, now basking in the afternoon sunlight, as quiet 
 and harmless as a good-natured giant taking his after- 
 dinner nap. We approached it from the inside, to gain 
 which side the compact columns of Logan and Stanley 
 and Davis hurled themselves against its rugged front so 
 fearlessly, but, alas, so fruitlessly, on that terrible 27th 
 of June. 
 
 Farther on we came to Alatoona Pass, taken at first 
 without a struggle, but afterward baptized in blood and 
 made glorious by a successful defence against immense 
 odds. 
 
 It was sunset when we reached Kingston, a straggling 
 row of dilapidated shanties. As the train was to stop 
 some time, I started out in search of supper. There was 
 no hotel, so I had to depend upon sutlers, or peripatetic 
 venders of pies. I entered one sutler's store, and found a 
 few fly-specked red handkerchiefs and some suspenders. 
 Another contained nothing but combs and shoe-black- 
 ing. Turning away mournfully, I espied an aged col-
 
 286 Coming from the Front. 
 
 ored man limping up the street with a basket on his arm. 
 I rushed madly at him, and, finding that he had apple- 
 pies, was soon the happy possessor of a brace of them. 
 I congratulated myself and gratefully sat down upon a 
 stone to eat, and well, such pies ! It was utterly im- 
 possible to tell what the crust was made of. In taste 
 and toughness it resembled a dirty piece of towel. The 
 interior " the bowels of the thing," as some one inele- 
 gantly called it, consisted of a few slices of uncooked 
 immature apple and a great many flies cooked whole. 
 The cooks were altogether too liberal with their flies. I 
 am not particularly well versed in the culinary art my- 
 self, but I venture boldly to say that the flies that were 
 in those two pies would have sufficed, if judiciously dis- 
 tributed, to season two dozen pies with the same pro- 
 portion of apple in them. 
 
 And of such was my supper at Kingston. The whis- 
 tle sounded, and we got aboard and were off for Chatta- 
 nooga. Night fell peacefully upon Kingston and its 
 dirty peddlers of unwholesome pies, as a curve in the 
 road hid it and them from our reproachful gaze. 
 
 As the darkness increased, and we went dashing at 
 break-neck speed over a road that had had little or 
 no care bestowed upon it since the opening of the cam- 
 paign, I thought of the humorous young man's remark, 
 and of how unpleasant and inconvenient it would be 
 to have this long train thrown off and its contents, as 
 Meister Karl hath it, " pcpperboxically distributed " in 
 the adjacent ditch.
 
 Coming from the Front. 287 
 
 And then to have one of Wheeler's men take advan- 
 tage of a fellow, as he lay there with a broken leg, and 
 rob him of the few dollars he had borrowed to go home 
 on ! "Well, we had been taking our chances for the last 
 three years, and it was no new thing to take them now. 
 With this comforting reflection, I sat down on my valise, 
 and, wrapped in my great-coat, awaited the coming of 
 " the balmy." It was rather unsatisfactory waiting. 
 Something in my head kept going rattlety-bang. jerk ety- 
 jerk, bumpety-bump, in unison with the noise of the 
 cars; and when I did get into a doze, I was harassed by 
 the dim shadow of a fear that we were about to leave 
 the track and go end-over-end down an embankment. 
 At last weariness overcame me, and I slept soundly, 
 half-lying on the dirty floor, half-leaning on my valise, 
 coiled up in one of those attitudes in which only an old 
 campaigner can sleep at all; I woke amid an unearthly 
 whizzing of steam, to find the train standing still, and 
 myself mysteriously entangled with various arms and 
 legs that didn't belong to me. I extricated myself and 
 looked out. Through the thick darkness of the early 
 morning there glared upon me the light of what seemed 
 to be inmimerable fierce, unwinking eyes. I began to 
 think that I had taken the wrong train and brought up in 
 the lower regions; but a little reflection and rubbing of 
 the eyes disclosed to me that we had reached Chattanooga 
 in safety, and that those fierce eyes were the head-lights 
 of the locomotives that had arrived during the night, and 
 were now blowing oft' their superfluous steam in. that
 
 288 Coming from the Front. 
 
 wild, unearthly manner. As soon as it was daylight I 
 inquired about trains going North, and learned that 
 there was no telling when a train would go, as Forrest 
 was said to be in the neighborhood of the road. So 
 there was nothing to do but to go to the Crutchfield 
 House and wait. Alas for the man whose purse is slim, 
 under any circumstances ! Alas and alas for him if he 
 was obliged to wait in Chattanooga at Crutchfield prices ! 
 It was a dollar that he had to pay for each scanty meal, 
 a dollar for the tise of a densely populated bed, and a 
 dollar must be deposited with the clerk to secure the 
 return of the little towel he wiped his face on. Besides 
 the pecuniary depletion that he suffered, he was bored to 
 death with weary waiting, with nothing to do and no- 
 where to go. Chattanooga was far from being a 
 cheerful place, especially in the rainy season, when noth- 
 ing was visible out of doors except the lonesome sen- 
 tinels pacing their beats in dripping ponchos, and with 
 guns tucked under their arms, and here and there a team 
 of steaming mules, struggling to draw a creaking, lum- 
 bering wagon through the detestable clay. 
 
 For amusement, there was a billiard-room, where one 
 had to wait eight hours for a chance to play. If he failed 
 to see any fun in this, he could step into another room, 
 and squander his currency for, and bemuddle his brains 
 with, a sloppy sort of beverage that the gentlemanly 
 proprietor would assure him was good, new beer. I 
 would rather take his word than his beer. At night, if 
 his tastes ran that way, for a small outlay one could
 
 Coming from the Front. 289 
 
 witness what was called a dramatic exhibition, but 
 which was really more anatomical than dramatic. 
 
 In this enlivening village, an ever-increasing crowd 
 of us was compelled to wait for five long days. Ke- 
 signed officers were far from being resigned, and officers 
 on leave were vexed and impatient because it was im- 
 possible to leave. 
 
 At length the joyful news spread that a train would 
 leave for Nashville at two o'clock in the afternoon. I 
 rushed to the depot, and was just fairly aboard a car, 
 when some one, more forcibly than politely, told me to 
 " git out o' that car." As he spoke as a man who had 
 authority, and knew it, I got out, and learned that I 
 was on the wrong train, and in a fair way to have been 
 carried to Knoxville. I forgave the man his abruptness 
 of speech, and went in search of the right train. Catch- 
 ing a glimpse of Capt. S., whom I knew to be going 
 North, in one of the cars, I got in without farther ques- 
 tion; and soon a fearful jerk, that piled us like dead- 
 wood in one end of the car, started us towards Nash- 
 ville. Eattling along at the usual reckless rate, we 
 found ourselves, soon after dark, at Stevenson, Alabama. 
 Here we were to stay all night; for the managers of 
 affairs still had the fear of Forrest before their eyes, and 
 dared not run trains at night. It was raining, and the 
 darkness of Erebus covered the face of the earth. Not- 
 withstanding this, Capt. S. and myself plunged out into 
 the night, determined to get something to eat, or perish 
 in the attempt. After wandering blindly for a while, 
 25*
 
 290 Coming from the Front. 
 
 tumbling into ditches, and falling over boxes and bar- 
 rels, that turned up where they were least expected, 
 we finally brought up among the ropes of the tent of a 
 sutler. We entered, and found the proprietor dozing 
 over a dime novel. We were sorry to disturb him in 
 his literary pursuits ; but we were hungry, and had to 
 be fed. We eagerly demanded various articles of food, 
 which he sleepily informed us he hadn't got Question- 
 ing him closely as to the edible part of his stock in 
 trade, we learned that it consisted of some Boston 
 crackers and a little cheese. We filled our haversacks 
 with these, regardless of expense. Having bought so 
 generously, the proprietor became generous in turn, 
 and, bringing forth a square black bottle, proffered it to 
 us with the remark: "You'll find that a leetle the best 
 gin this side o' Louisville. Take hold ! " The captain 
 took hold; but the silent, though expressive comment, 
 that was written on his countenance when he let go, 
 induced me to decline with thanks. A decent regard 
 for the man's feelings prevented any audible expression; 
 but, as soon as we were out of the tent, the captain sol- 
 emnly assured me that he was poisoned, and that he 
 would utter his last words when he got comfortably 
 fixed in the car. Getting back to the car was almost as 
 perilous an undertaking as finding the sutler's store; 
 but, fortunately, we were guided by the voice of Capt. 
 W. crying, in heart-rending tones, "Lost child I lost 
 child ! " Capt. S. interrupted one of his most pathetic 
 cries by striking him in the pit of the stomach with a
 
 Coming from the Front. 291 
 
 loaded haversack, and demanding to be helped aboard. 
 Once more snugly ensconced in our car, we proceeded 
 to sup right royally on our crackers and cheese. S. 
 forgot all about his last words until some time near the 
 middle of the night, when he woke me to say that he 
 had concluded to postpone them till he got home, where 
 he could have them published in the county paper. 
 Barring this interruption, I slept soundly all night, hav- 
 ing more room than on the trip from Atlanta, and not 
 having the thunder of a running train sounding in my 
 ears. 
 
 At breakfast-time we drew out the fragmentary re- 
 mainder of our last night's repast, and were about to 
 take our morning meal, when we discovered that both 
 crackers and cheese had a singularly animated appear- 
 ance. Symptoms of internal commotion manifested 
 themselves in all of us except S., who thought that, as 
 the gin had not killed him, he was proof against any- 
 thing. His stoic composure acted soothingly upon the 
 rest of us, and we concluded that it was too late to feel 
 bad, and consoled each other by repeating the little 
 rhyme, 
 
 " What can't be cured 
 Must be endured." 
 
 By eight o'clock the fog lifted, and we started on our 
 journey northward. Wild and contradictory stories 
 were afloat in regard to the whereabouts and doings 
 of the terrible, ubiquitous Forrest. Revolvers were 
 brought out and capped and primed afresh, and watches
 
 292 Coming from the Front. 
 
 and rings were hidden in what were deemed inaccessible 
 parts of the clothing. There was considerable anxiety 
 in regard to the bridges over Elk and Duck rivers, and 
 when we had passed them both safely, the train quick- 
 ened its speed, every one breathed more freely, and the 
 belligerent men put away their fire-arms. 
 
 "We hastened on without accident and with decreasing 
 fear, though the debris of broken and burned cars 
 that lined the roadside, suggesting some unpleasant re- 
 flections, and at the close of the day entered the picket 
 lines at Nashville, and were safe. 
 
 Then came a foot-race, from the depot to the hotel, 
 for a prize that nobody won, for all the hotels in the 
 city were already full from cellar to garret. Capt. S. 
 and I sat down upon the cold, hard curb-stone and 
 mingled our weary groans, Avhile "VV., more plucky and 
 better acquainted with the city, went in search of a 
 boarding-house. Having returned, with the cheering 
 intelligence that he had found beds and supper, we fol- 
 lowed him gladly, and, after eating a supper, the quan- 
 tity of which I would not like to confess, retired to our 
 rooms, and were soon to use the captain's elegant 
 language " wrapped in that dreamless, refreshing 
 slumber that only descends upon the pillow of the 
 innocent and beautiful."
 
 A NIGHT IN THE SEWERS. 
 
 (293)
 
 A NIGHT IN THE SEWERS. 
 
 " ERHAPS some of my fair readers will consider 
 me a disagreeable person for telling them some- 
 thing I know about kid gloves. Perhaps they 
 will not believe me when I tell them that in 
 Paris and elsewhere there exists or did exist not 
 very long ago an extensive trade in the skins of 
 common rats, and that these skins, when dressed and 
 dyed, are converted into those delicate coverings for the 
 hands, commonly called " kid " gloves, and supposed to 
 be manufactured from the hides of immature goats. 
 
 I was acquainted with a dog-dealer in Paris, a Dane, 
 whose name was Beck. To him I went one day, bent 
 upon obtaining a terrier dog of good intellect and 
 agreeable manners, who should be a companion to me in 
 my " lodgings for single gentlemen," and whose gambols 
 might serve to amuse me in my lighter hours, when, af- 
 ter work, I would make little pedestrian excursions in the 
 neighborhood, for the sake of exercise and air. Beck's 
 kennel was comprised in a small yard, at the back of a 
 rickety house; and, when I entered it, persuasion was 
 
 (295)
 
 296 A Night in the Sewers. 
 
 hardly needed to induce me to stand as near the centre 
 of the enclosure as possible, in order to keep at chain's 
 length from what the French call 'boule dogues, several 
 of which ill-looking canines formed a portion of Beck's 
 stock in trade. 
 
 " Here," said Mr. Beck, in reply to a question of mine 
 and in pretty good English, " here in this box I have a 
 small dog of a kind quite fashionable now. They call 
 him a Skye terrier, and I have given him the name of 
 ' Dane,' because he comes from far north, like myself, 
 and has long yellow hair." 
 
 With these words, Mr. Beck laid hold of a chain, and 
 drawing it sharply, jerked out from among some straw a 
 creature made up, apparently, of tow and wire, with a 
 pair of eyes like black beads glittering through the 
 shocks of hair that fell over its head. The animal 
 seemed cowed, and I did not think much of him at first 
 sight. 
 
 " He has had bad usage," said Mr. Beck; " first time I 
 saw him was yesterday, when he burst in at my back- 
 door, with a horse-shoe fastened to his tail. There, you 
 see I have nailed the shoe over the door of his box. He 
 will be a lucky bargain for whoever buys him, you may 
 depend upon that." 
 
 " Good upon rats ? " asked I. 
 
 " Know nothing about him," replied Mr. Beck, honest- 
 ly; "never saw him before yesterday. They all take 
 the water kindly though, these Skyes do, and if you 
 want to try him at rats, I can put you in the way of it."
 
 A Night in the Sewers. 297 
 
 Somehow I took to the ragged little beast, and so I 
 paid Mr. Beck sixty francs for him, and ten more for the 
 little wooden kennel with the horseshoe nailed upon it. 
 I have a great regard for horseshoes as insurers of 
 luck; because once, when I had picked up one on the 
 road, and carried it home in my pocket, I found a letter 
 on my table, informing me that I had come in for a 
 small legacy, through the death of an aged kinswoman 
 whom I had never seen. 
 
 What with good treatment and diet, the frequent bath 
 and the free use of the comb, it was not many days be- 
 fore master Dane became a very presentable dog, and 
 had quite recovered his pluck and spirits. He bullied, 
 and banished forever to the house-top, a large tortoise- 
 shell cat, that had hitherto commanded the garrison, and 
 I thought, one day, that I should like to try him at rats. 
 So out I sallied with him in search of Mr. Beck, who 
 had promised to put me in the way of getting some 
 sport of the kind. 
 
 That versatile gentleman was not in his kennel when 
 I called, but his wife told me that I would find him in 
 the "skinnery" attached to the establishment; and, 
 asking me to follow her, she ushered me into a long, low 
 apartment, lighted with a row of circular windows. 
 The odor of the place was very pungent and disagree- 
 able. There were several wooden tanks ranged along 
 one wall of the room, and, on lines stretched along by 
 the windows, a number of small skins were hung to dry. 
 Mr. Beck, assisted by a couple of tan-colored boys, was 
 
 26
 
 298 A Night in the Sewers. 
 
 busily engaged in stirring the contents of the tanks. A 
 dead rat on the floor immediately engaged the attention 
 of Dane, who seized it in his teeth, shook it savagely 
 for a moment, and then pitched it away from him, ap- 
 parently in disgust at finding it already dead. 
 
 " What do you make of the rat-skins ? " inquired I, 
 after I had looked on for a while. 
 
 " Money," rejoined Mr. Beck, curtly; " but the man I 
 dress them for makes them into gloves, ladies' gloves, 
 of the primest quality." 
 
 " Ladies have rats about them in more ways than one, 
 then," said I. " Where do you get the raw material ? " 
 
 " The rat-hunters supply me. Their hunting-grounds 
 lie all under the streets of Paris. Would you like to 
 have a day in the sewers with your terrier ? Simonet 
 will be here in a few minutes, and you can go the rounds 
 with him if you will." 
 
 Just what I wanted, and so I sat upon a bench and 
 waited, and presently a man came in. He was a low- 
 sized, squat fellow of about forty, with heavy, round 
 shoulders, and bowed legs; and his head and face were 
 almost entirely covered with a thatch of tangled red 
 hair, out from which there peered a couple of green- 
 ish eyes of very sinister expression. He had a leath- 
 ern sack slung over his shoulder, and carried in his 
 hand a long wand of birch, brushy, with the twigs left 
 upon it at one end. 
 
 " On the rounds, eh, Simonet ? " said Mr. Beck, ad- 
 dressing this agreeable-looking gentleman ; " well, here's
 
 A Night in the Sewers. 299 
 
 a monsieur who would like to go with you. He wants to 
 try his terrier at the rats. You can make your own 
 bargain with him." 
 
 Then looking at me, he continued, 
 
 " Better leave your coat with my old woman, who'll 
 give you a clean blouse instead." 
 
 Madame took my coat, and gave me a strong blouse 
 and a somewhat greasy cap; and in this guise I went 
 forth with Simonet, who immediately plunged into the 
 thick of the city slums. After having gone some dis- 
 tance, we entered a dismal and dirty office, in which 
 a man, turning over some piles of documents, after a 
 few whispered words with my guide, handed him a 
 bunch of heavy keys, and we again went out into the 
 streets. Entering a paved court-yard, a declivity led us 
 down to a sort of tunnel, the entrance to which was 
 barred by a heavy, grated door, which Simonet opened 
 with one of the keys, locking it again as soon as we had 
 got in. 
 
 " We are in one of the main sewers now, monsieur," 
 said he, in a squeaky, rat-like voice; "you must be care- 
 ful to keep close by me, and not stray away into any of 
 the branches." 
 
 It was pitch dark, as I looked before me into the tun- 
 nel, dark, and awful, and silent, but for the gliding, 
 oozing sound of slowly-flowing water. Simonet pro- 
 duced a lantern, which he lit, and I could see by the dim 
 light thrown from it that we were in a vast stone pas- 
 sage, through the centre of which there ran a dark, deep
 
 3oo A Night in the Sewers. 
 
 stream. Between the wall and the stream on either 
 side there was a broad pathway, or ledge, and along 
 this the rat-hunter motioned me to follow him. Soon 
 we reached a turn in the tunnel, and here Simonet, 
 after searching about upon the wall for a moment, found 
 a rusty nail in it, upon which he hung his lantern. 
 Then producing a couple of torches from his sack, ho 
 lighted them, and handed one to me. 
 
 " There is a birch wattle hid away somewhere here," 
 said he, " ah, yes ! here it is, take it monsieur, and 
 use it just as you shall see me do when we get among 
 the rats. Keep close to me, else you may get lost in the 
 drains." 
 
 Dane grew very excited, now, and ran ahead of us a 
 good way, and presently we heard a great rushing and 
 squeaking, and the suppressed snarling of the little dog 
 as he worried the rats. Then we saw many rats running 
 hither and thither, some of them so scared by the light 
 'of the torches, as they came near us, that they leaped 
 into the water, while others ran up the wall, from 
 which we quickly knocked them with our wattles. Si- 
 monet did not put them into his bag, but left them where 
 they fell, saying that his custom was to pick them up on 
 his way back. 
 
 The dog behaved wonderfully well, fighting and shak- 
 ing the rats that fell in his way with great fierceness and 
 pluck. 5lt last, when we had killed about a hundred of 
 them, we thought it time to rest. Simonet produced a 
 short, black pipe, and, as I was filling mine, he cast a wist-
 
 A Night in the Sewers. 301 
 
 ful look at my tobacco-pouch, thinking, probably, that the 
 article contained in it must be of a quality superior to 
 that of the cheap stuff smoked by him ; so I poured half 
 the contents of it into his hand, and he filled his pipe 
 from it, with a grin of satisfaction on his ugly face. 
 
 " It will soon be time for us to turn back," said he, 
 after a while; "the best place for rats is a little way 
 further on, and it will be too late to try it if we don't go 
 forward now." 
 
 On we went, slashing right and left at the rats, most 
 of which, I noticed, were of a very black color here, as 
 if belonging to a peculiar colony that existed in this part 
 of the tunnel. As we rounded a corner, however, a very 
 large white rat ran past us, and disappeared down a 
 cross-gallery that led away to the left. Wishing to se- 
 cure this animal as a trophy, I hallooed the terrier upon 
 its tracks, and was about following the chase, when 
 Sirnonet laid his hand upon my arm, and whispered, in a 
 tone of entreaty, 
 
 " Don't risk your life, monsieur I He who follows the 
 white rat of the sewer is likely never to find his way 
 back alive. There's a blight about the creature, and old 
 stories are afloat of how it has led rat-hunters away into 
 dangerous parts of the sewers, like a jack-o'-lantern, and 
 then set upon them with a number of its kind, and picked 
 their bones clean ! " 
 
 Breaking away from the fellow, with a jerk that 
 knocked the pipe out of his hand, and sent it spinning 
 into the black water below, I ran down the by-sewer 
 26*
 
 302 A Night in the Sewers. 
 
 after the terrier, whose whimper, as though he were yet 
 in full chase, I could 'hear at a good distance ahead of 
 me. "When I came up with him, which I did only after 
 having taken several turns, he seemed at fault, head up 
 and tail down, and gazing, with a very puzzled expres- 
 sion up at the vaulted roof. There was no white rat to 
 be seen, nor could I detect any aperture in the walls, 
 into which the creature could have made its escape. 
 Then a sort of superstitious fear fell upon me, as I 
 thought of Simonet's warning, and, with a word of en- 
 couragement to the dog, I hastened to retrace my steps, 
 shouting loudly every now and then, so as to let the rat- 
 hunter know of my whereabouts. But no responsive 
 halloo came to my call. Not a sound was to be heard 
 but the hollow beat of my footsteps on the damp, mouldy 
 path, and the squeaking, here and there, of the rats, as we 
 disturbed them from their feast on some garbage fished 
 up by them from the slimy bed of the drain. Excited at 
 the position in which I found myself, I now began to 
 make reckless detours hither and thither, until, thorough- 
 ly exhausted by my exertions, I leaned my back against 
 the wall, and tried to remember such marks as might 
 have been observed by me in the tunnel since I had 
 parted from Simonet. The only marks of the wayside 
 that I could recall, however, were the dead rats left by 
 us upon the ledge as we passed, and of these I had seen 
 none while I was trying to retrace my steps. Arguing 
 from this, and from the fact that Simonet did not respond 
 to my shouts, which I continued to utter at intervals, I
 
 A Night in the Sewers. 303 
 
 began to feel au extremely unpleasant nervous shiver 
 creeping over me, suggestive of all the horrors about 
 which I had ever read or dreamed. The little dog lay 
 cowering at my feet, as if he, too, were somewhat de- 
 jected at the prospect of being ea.ten alive by aveng- 
 ing rats ; and, to crown the situation, just as I had 
 nerved myself for another effort to recover the lost clue, 
 my torch went out with a malignant flicker, and I found 
 myself in black darkness ! 
 
 Sinking down at the foot of the wall, I now gave my- 
 self up for lost. Even had the torch not been quite 
 burnt out, I had no means of relighting it, having used 
 my last match when we stopped to smoke, just before 
 I broke away from my guide. I think I must have 
 become somewhat delirious now; for I have a faint 
 recollection of wild songs chanted, and of yells that 
 made the vaulted roof ring again. Then a heavy sleep 
 must have fallen upon me, which probably lasted for 
 several hours; and then I awoke to a dim consciousness 
 of horror, as I began to realize the terrible situation 
 into which I had brought myself by my reckless folly. 
 My dog was still nestling close to me; and it may have 
 been to his presence, perhaps, that I owed the fact of 
 my not having been mangled by rats during my sleep. 
 Rising with difficulty to my feet, for I was stiff from lying 
 so long upon the damp, cold ground, I once more tried to 
 shout; but my voice was utterly gone, from my previous 
 exertion of it, and I could not raise it above a whisper. 
 Then, in sheer desperation, I dragged myself along the
 
 304 A Night in the Sewers. 
 
 wall, feeling the way with my hands, and had not gone 
 many paces' when I felt an angle in the masonry, on 
 rounding which a ray of hope dawned upon me, as I 
 discerned a faint light, far, far away, at the end of what 
 seemed to be all but. an endless shaft of darkness. The 
 prospect of escape infused new vigor into my weary 
 limbs, and I kept steering onward for the light, which 
 grew larger and larger as I approached it. At last I 
 got near enough to see that it came through a small 
 grille, or iron door, which terminated the branch of the 
 sewer in which I was. When I reached the grating, I 
 saw that it looked out upon the river, between which 
 and it, however, there lay a deep indentation, or chan- 
 nel, of some fifty or sixty yards in length. It was gray 
 morning, and I could see boats and steamers and ships, 
 passing and repassing upon the river. Surely deliver- 
 ance was now at hand ! but how was I to make my 
 situation known ? My voice, as I have said, was ut- 
 terly gone, and I had barely strength left to wave my 
 pocket-handkerchief from the grating. There I stood for 
 hours, a prisoner looking wistfully through the bars 
 of a dungeon to which no wayfarer came. I had sunk 
 down at the foot of the grating, from mere exhaustion, 
 when the whining of my little dog attracted me, and I 
 gave him a caressing pat. He licked my face and 
 whined again, as much as to say, " Can't I be of some 
 use to you ? " This brought a bright idea to my mind. 
 Tearing a leaf from my note-book, I wrote the following 
 words upon it, with pencil:
 
 A Night in the Sewers. 305 
 
 " I have lost my way in the sewers. You will find 
 me at the grating just opposite a large buoy marked X. 
 Come quickly." 
 
 Placing this inside my india-rubber tobacco-pouch, I 
 bound it tightly, with a strip from my pocket-handker- 
 chief, to Dane's collar; and then, taking the little fellow 
 gently in my arms, and speaking a word or two of dog- 
 talk to him, I dropped him from the grating into the 
 stream below, which was running out fast enough to 
 prevent him from trying to return; nor was it long be- 
 fore I had the satisfaction of seeing him swimming 
 boldly out toward the river, as if he knew perfectly 
 well what he was about. I had no fears but that some- 
 body in a boat would pick him up before he was ex- 
 hausted, because this kind of dog can live for a great 
 while in the water. Yet he was gone fof a long, long 
 time, at least, it seemed a long time to me, and I 
 saw the distant boats passing and repassing, and the 
 steamers and the ships, and heard the cheery voices of 
 the mariners, as I held on there by the iron grating, 
 half-dead. At last a boat, pulled by two men and 
 steered by a third, shot up into the channel; and the 
 boatmen raised a joyful shout as I waved my hand- 
 kerchief to them from my prison-bars. The steersman 
 held my little dog upon his knee ; but the faithful ani- 
 mal broke away from him when he saw me, and would 
 have jumped overboard in his eagerness to reach me 
 had he not been caught by one of the men.
 
 306 A Night in the Sewers. 
 
 When the boat had come quite close under the grat- 
 ing, I saw that it was manned by men of the river 
 guard. They told me that one of their number had 
 gone round to report the matter to the proper authori- 
 ties, and that assistance would quickly be at hand, and 
 one of them, standing on the thwarts of the boat, reached 
 up to me a flask of brandy and a biscuit, after having 
 partaken of which I felt sufficiently revived to be very 
 thankful for my escape from a horrible death. In less 
 than an hour keys were brought by an officer connected 
 with the sewers, and I was released from my disagree- 
 able position, much to the joy of Dane, who covered me 
 with caresses after his honest doggy fashion; nor, half- 
 starved as the little animal must have been, would he 
 touch a morsel of biscuit until after he had seen me safe 
 in the boat. 
 
 The next thing to be done was to make a search for 
 Simonet, who had not made his appearance in the upper 
 regions since we entered the sewers. Men were sent 
 after him, and he was found in a half-stupefied condition 
 just where I had left him, among the dead rats. He 
 could give little or no account of himself, save that his 
 torch had gone out, just as he was about starting in 
 search of me, and that a stupor came over him, then, 
 and he sat down and fell asleep. This was all accounted 
 for afterwards. Having lost his pipe, as I have said, he 
 sought to assuage his craving for stimulants by chewing 
 or rather eating quantities of the tobacco with 
 which I had furnished him, and this proved, on examina-
 
 A Night in the Sewers. 307 
 
 tion, to have been taken by me, in mistake, from a jar 
 in which opium had been copiously mixed with the 
 milder narcotic for experimental purposes. Probably 
 the little I had smoked of it in my pipe had somewhat 
 affected me; and Simonet averred that he thought it 
 must have been the smell of it that saved us from being 
 eaten by the rats. A few franc pieces, a new pipe, and 
 a reasonable stock of the best tobacco, made a happy 
 man of that rare old gutter-snipe; but nothing could 
 induce him to make any further reference to the white 
 rat, at the very mention of which he would scowl hor- 
 ribly, and retire, as it were, behind the mass of red hair 
 with which his face was fringed. 
 
 As for me, I believe more in horse-shoes than ever, 
 since the adventure narrated above. I had a small one 
 made in silver, for Dane; and this the faithful animal 
 wore suspended from his collar as a charm until he went 
 the way of all dogs, full of honors and of years.

 
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