Uncle Ith, who had just rung the last stroke of a round, relinquished

the lever, and looked over the shoulder of his nephew. "The fire's out,"

said he. "When you see the steam comin' up that way, you may know that

the water has whipped." The old man then seated himself in the backless

chair, produced a short black pipe from a crossbeam overhead, and

rewarded himself with a few long puffs.

When Uncle Ith had a pipe in his mouth, he became didactic, and he

therefore proceeded to renew his donations of valuable advice to his

nephew, who was still looking hard out of the southeast window.

Bog cocked his head on one side, to make a show of listening, and said

"Yes, sir," now and then, which was all that his uncle expected of him.

But his whole mind, and his heart, were in the little double-windowed

room, where Pet was now practising upon the piano. Through the

uncurtained glass, Bog could see her hands weaving music with the keys,

and almost fancy he could hear it. The inventor bent over his machine,

and plied the hammer, the chisel, and the file, on various parts of it.

Now and then he would pause, stand erect, and look proudly toward his

child, and keep time to her music with inclinations of his head. Bog,

without knowing it, would do the same thing.

While the boy was gloating over this scene, unconscious of the swift

passage of time, the clock on the nearest church struck nine. Bog

sighed, for he knew that that was Pet's hour for bed. Sure enough. Her

little hands shut up the piano, and neatly smoothed down the cloth over

it. Then she lit a candle, ran up to her father and kissed him, and in a

moment was lost from Bog's sight in her chamber. As she disappeared, the

boy's lips murmured "Good-night" with a fervor which made that simple

colloquial phrase both a prayer and a blessing.

When Pet had gone, Bog suddenly found that the night had become cold,

and that he was beginning to shiver. So he shut the southeast window,

and took a seat by the fire to warm himself before going home.

BOOK FOURTH.

CHILDREN OF THE WORLD.

CHAPTER I.

MYNDERT VAN QUINTEM AND SON.

One morning, when Marcus Wilkeson returned home from a ramble, he found

his half-sister Philomela violently dusting the furniture and books of

the snug little back parlor. The air was full of dancing motes, which

looked large and suffocating in the sunshine. Marcus had politely

requested his sister, fifty times at least, _not_ to molest that

sanctuary of meditation oftener than once a fortnight. To which she

always replied: "I suppose you great lazy fellows would like to have the

cobwebs grow on you. But you sha'n't, while I am in the house." Then,

with a few dexterous flourishes of her cloth, she would start the dust

up in a cloud.

On this morning, Marcus Wilkeson, being in the most tolerant of moods,

merely said "Whew!" and took a seat by his favorite window, the lower

sash of which he threw wide open, with the vain hope that some of the

dust would blow out. Miss Philomela smiled at this act so as to be seen

by him. But he did not appear to notice it. Then she whisked her cloth

under his very nose, as if to challenge objections. After this

aggravation had been repeated three or four times, Marcus felt compelled

to make a mild protest.

"Great deal of dust, sister," he said, stating what he presumed would

not be contradicted.

"Is there?" replied Miss Philomela, exulting in the success of her

stratagem. "_I_ didn't notice it; nor would you, if you had some

business to look after, like other people, instead of stopping in the

house all day."

Marcus had heard that argument and triumphantly put it down so often,

that he did not think it worth another word. Consequently he

said nothing.

This obstinate silence galled Miss Philomela; and, after waiting full

three minutes to see if Marcus would not answer, and meanwhile dusting

prodigiously in his neighborhood, she said:

"Well, it's some gratification to know that you do not have the

hardihood to defend yourself. You are well aware that nothing can

justify a healthy, middle-aged man--I may say, a young one--in retiring

from active life and society, and becoming a great lazy mope."

"I'm really too lazy to discuss it now," replied Marcus, smiling, and

filling his meerschaum from the tobacco pouch which hung conveniently at

the window's side.

Philomela regarded him for a moment with an expression of pity and

horror. Then she heaved a sigh, and muttered something about

misapplied talents.

"You had better say, 'Misapplied brooms and dusters,'" retorted her

half-brother. "I should be perfectly happy now, but for this

confounded dust."

"Laugh away. I know you despise my sisterly advice. But you can never

say that I have not done my duty--"

"To the furniture, most assuredly," interrupted Marcus.

Miss Philomela Wilkeson heaved another sigh in the best style of

martyrdom, and precipitately left the room, followed by her brother's

cheerful, rattling laugh.

"A good old girl enough," said Marcus to himself, "but for her

well-meaning and strictly conscientious habit of making people

miserable."

Then he lighted his meerschaum, closed the window, squared his chair in

front of it, and looked out. His face instantly flushed with pleasure at

a strange sight. The blinds of the lower parlor windows across the way,

which had been shut for several weeks, were now thrown open, and the

white-haired old gentleman, looking thin and pale, sat in his armchair

in his old place, and was gazing at him. At least so Marcus thought; but

he hesitated to bow until the old gentleman gave a distinct salutation.

Marcus returned it two or three times with emphasis, as if to express

his great pleasure at seeing his unknown neighbor and friend again. He

blushed as he did so, for he was conscious of wilful neglect and cruel

indifference, in not having called upon him on New Year's day, or since

then, during the period of the closed blinds; and worse still, in not

having thought of him a dozen times, though he had taken the trouble to

pass his door on his way to or from Mr. Minford's, and had felt relieved

to see no black crape on the bell-pull.

"But then," thought Marcus, pleading with and for himself, "my mind has

been occupied--very much occupied--- with other matters. Now, if he

beckons to me again, I will go over to him without a moment's delay. My

old friend looks very sick and unhappy."

Just then the old gentleman reached out his thin white hand, as if the

motion required an effort, and beckoned twice. Marcus answered with two

bows, and immediately rose, and laid down his pipe on the window sill,

thereby implying that he would come over at once. The old gentleman

smiled faintly, to express his delight.

In a few minutes Marcus Wilkeson stood at the antique mansion, and

pulled the bell. It vibrated feebly as if it shared with the house and

its owner the infirmities of age. The bell was answered by an old,

neatly dressed female servant. She had been told to admit the caller

instantly, and said, "Mr. Van Quintem will see you, sir."

He entered a wide hallway, and followed the noiseless step of the

servant, trying to remember, without success, where he had heard the

name of Van Quintem.

At the end of the hall the servant opened a door, and ushered him into a

room decorated at the edges of the ceiling with heavy wooden carvings,

and furnished in the style of the last century. The old gentleman partly

rose from his soft armchair, supported himself by one hand on it, and

extended the other to his visitor.

"My name is Myndert Van Quintem, sir," said he, "and I am very glad to

see you." There was a pleasant smile in the old gentleman's pale face,

and a warmth in the grasp of his thin right hand, that attested the

sincerity of his words.

"And my name is Marcus Wilkeson, sir; and I am truly happy to make your

acquaintance," responded the visitor, in his most genial manner.

The old gentleman here showed symptoms of faintness from the exertion of

standing; and Marcus, taking him by the arm, forced him gently into his

easy chair, and took a seat beside him.

"I must apologize for not having called before," said Marcus. "I--"

"Not a word, sir," interrupted the old gentleman. "It is I who must

apologize for the rudeness of nodding and beckoning to a perfect

stranger. But the fact was, I could not regard you as a stranger. Seeing

you at your window, smoking and reading, day after day, while I was

smoking and musing at mine, I gradually came to sympathize with you, and

to wish that the distance across the lots was short enough to allow us

to converse. I thought, perhaps, that on some subjects we might interest

each other. Now, be good enough to fill that pipe and smoke it, while I

tell you in few words who I am."

He pointed to a meerschaum, carved into the semblance of a Dutchman's

head, which looked not unlike his own. It was fitted to a long Turkish

stem, and hung against the wall by a silver chain, within reach of his

hand. Five other pipes of quaint design hung near it.

Marcus protested against smoking in an invalid's presence; but the old

gentleman insisted upon it, and playfully but firmly threatened to smoke

the pipe himself if his guest did not. So Marcus filled the large bowl

from a paper of old, mild tobacco, which hung in a pouch near it, and

drew a few gentle whiffs, intending to let the pipe go out. But the old

gentleman watched him.

"'Twon't do," said he. "That old pipe of mine is not used to neglect. As

a particular favor, now, I beg that you'll smoke, and puff out clouds,

as I have often seen you do across the way."

Marcus protested again, but the old gentleman stubbornly maintained his

point; and it was not till the pungent smoke began to curl upward, that

he proceeded with his personal disclosure.

"Have you ever heard my name before, Mr. Wilkeson?" said he.

Marcus bowed, and said that he had not had that pleasure.

"Of course not," returned the old gentleman, not displeased with the

answer. "I have taken infinite pains to keep out of public life since I

retired from business, twenty-five years ago. Even before that time, I

was known only to a very few persons as a silent partner in the large

iron-importing house of Sniggs, Buffet & Co. I had no relations, and few

friends, in the common acceptance of that much-abused word. My only

happiness was in my wife--that is her picture hanging over the

mantelpiece--and this house, which my father built, and which, according

to a tradition in our family, is on or near the spot where my

great-great-grandfather, the fourth Myndert Van Quintem, perished by the

hands of the Indians."

"Then," interrupted Marcus, "you belong to an old Dutch family?"

"To one of the oldest on record," replied Mr. Van Quintem. "My great

ancestor, the genuine original Myndert, came over as cook with Hendrik

Hudson. We have an iron spoon of doubtful authenticity, said to have

descended from him. Sometimes I have paid the penalty of this ancient

and distinguished origin, by receiving stupid compliments on my old

Dutch blood, as if that species of blood were better than any other.

That sort of nonsense I have always answered by informing the flatterer

that the first bearer of my venerable name was a cook; the second, a

tanner; the third--well, the least said about the third the better; and

the fourth, a barber. My grandfather, a very worthy saddler, in old

Queen's street, was the first of the series that was ever able to buy

and hold real estate. My father increased upon his purchases, and, when

the property came into my possession, I, in turn, added to its extent as

fast as I could. In forty years, this property has become valuable; and

I now find myself and my lots occupying a large space on the tax rolls.

"It is a curious fact, and illustrates the uncertainty of human events,

that my success is the result of accident, and is not in the least due

to my judgment or foresight. Every kind of business that I have engaged

in--and I have tried several kinds--has failed. Sniggs, Buffet & Co.

almost finished me; and, if I had not backed out as I did, the better

part of my estate would have been sacrificed. Among those who know me, I

pass for a very shrewd business man, who has made a fortune by his

numerous failures. This tribute to my abilities is flattering, but I

must disclaim it. But I am tiring you with these petty details of

my life."

"Not at all, really," said Marcus Wilkeson, who enjoyed the old

gentleman's frankness.

Mr. Van Quintem paused, and began to show signs of fatigue. He asked for

a cordial which stood on an old sideboard with great lion's feet, near

his visitor's chair. Having sipped of its contents, he expressed himself

relieved, and resumed his story:

"As I was saying, I found my whole happiness in my wife, and in this

house. With the exception of a few friends of my youth--now all

dead--she was my only society. Like me, she was fond of retirement and

of books. You, sir, can appreciate the quiet, satisfying pleasure which

we derived from books, for you, too, are a constant, happy reader; and

you have fine books, as I know by the size of them. You see, I have been

observing you closely," he added, with a smile. The old gentleman's

smile was sweet, but relapsed into a mild expression of sadness.

"Not more closely than I have observed you," said Marcus. "I have often

wondered what stout old quartos you were reading. To tell you the truth,

I inferred, from the dimensions of the books and your white cravat, that

you were a clergyman." Marcus might have added, that the old gentleman's

flowing white locks and benevolent features had contributed to the

illusion; but he had already discovered that Mr. Van Quintem, like

himself, was averse to compliments.

The old gentleman took the remark good-naturedly. "This is not the first

time," said he, "that my old-fashioned fancy for a white cravat has led

to that mistake. You will find very little of the body of divinity in

that library. When I recover from this illness so as to hobble about, we

will look over my little collection together."

Marcus said that nothing could give him greater delight, unless it was

to show his friend his own humble library.

"Thank you," returned Mr. Van Quintem; "and I promise to run over and

look at it when I am well enough to go out." The haste with which the

old gentleman made the last remark, and the fact that he did not invite

his visitor to examine the library then and there, led Marcus to think

that the old gentleman had some private trouble on his mind, which he

wished to diminish by imparting to another. Marcus was right.

The old gentleman heaved a sigh, and resumed:

"For ten years after my retirement, my wife and I lived on in the calm,

happy manner that I have described. We had no griefs--not even that one

which most commonly afflicts parents, the loss of children. Yet I

sometimes think, sir, that it would be far better for some children to

die in their youth and innocence, than to grow up and become bad men,

and torture and almost kill their parents with ingratitude and

unkindness." Marcus guessed what was to come.

"We had but one child--a boy--born long after I had given up all hopes

of having an heir. I need not tell you, sir, what a joy he was to us in

his infancy; for you, too, I presume, are a husband and a father."

Marcus replied confusedly, and as if it were something to be ashamed of,

that he was neither the one nor the other, though he hoped some day

(here he was exceedingly awkward) to be both.

The old gentleman was so wrapped up in his own thoughts, that he did not

seem to notice the reply. He again braced himself in the chair, as if he

would, by that act, gather strength to proceed.

"Of course, I called the child Myndert. He was the seventh of that name;

and I used to think, even when he was a toddling little baby, what plans

of education would be best suited to develop his talents. I know that a

parent's partiality is a magnifying glass of high power; but, to the

best of my belief, he was a most precocious child. I think so now, as I

look back upon the days of his prattling innocence.

"After a great deal of debating, my wife and I concluded to make a

lawyer of him. He was to be the first lawyer in our family annals; and

we fondly pictured to ourselves that he would become an eminent judge,

or that he would step from the bar into political life, and shed honor

upon his country and his family as a statesman. I know how ridiculous

these imaginings must seem to you, and I recall them only to show you

how deeply our hearts were wrapped up in that boy.

"When our little Myndert was five years old, my wife died." Here the old

gentleman clutched the arms of the chair firmly with both hands. "Our

son had been very sick for a week before, and my dear Clara had nearly

worn herself out watching over and nursing him. A severe cold, which she

caught while going to the druggist's in a rain, did the rest. She died

with one arm around me and the other around little Myndert; and her

last words were a blessing on the boy, and a request that I would always

love him for her sake." The old gentleman's eyes glistened with tears,

and his lips twitched convulsively. Marcus evinced his sympathy in the

fittest way, by keeping silence, and fixing his eyes on the floor.

"Well, sir, not to be tedious, I lavished my whole heart upon that

child. His presence seemed to be some consolation for the great loss I

had sustained. His features were so like hers, in all except the eyes,

that I seemed to see her through him; and thus, in a peculiar sense, I

loved him for her sake, indeed. He was petted and caressed from his very

cradle. Ah, there was my error; but who can blame a father for

over-loving his only son, and that one motherless!

"He early showed indications of a fierce temper and a sullen pride, in

which respects he resembled not his mother, but her father, who, with

the exception of these two faults, was a good and just man. I have heard

of cases in which strong mental traits jump over a generation, and

appear in the next one. I thought, and still think, that my son's

singular peculiarities might be explained in that way. If you will bear

with me, sir, I will give you some illustrations of his character.

"When he was nine years of age, a dear friend, now dead, advised me not

to injure so precocious an intellect by too much cultivation, but to put

the boy on a farm, where he could divide his time between healthful work

and youthful sports, and would be kept away from the contaminating

influences of the city, I agreed to make the experiment, though

reluctantly, for I could not bear the thought of parting with my child.

An old family acquaintance who owned a farm in Dutchess County, and had

no children, was willing to take my boy.

"Little Myndert liked the idea of going into the country, and for two

weeks he behaved very well; and his acting father wrote me, that if I

could spare the boy, he would like to adopt him as his own. But the next

letter, a week afterward, brought a different story. It was while

Myndert was not put to work, that he behaved so well. But when the

farmer gave him a little hoe, and asked him to grub up a few weeds in

the garden, the lad threw it down, and said to the farmer, 'I hate you.'

This was his favorite expression to those who aroused his displeasure

when a child. The good man was astonished at this insubordination, and

tried to persuade Myndert to do as he was told. But persuasion was

useless; and so were the threats with which the farmer tried to frighten

him. As for whipping the boy, he was, like me, too soft-hearted to

do that.

"So Myndert became the master there, as he had been here. His real

nature now came out. From that time until the worthy farmer sent the boy

home in despair--ten weeks later--he was the wonder and terror of the

neighborhood. Chickens, goslings, and young ducks were killed; boughs of

apple trees and other fruit trees were broken down; strawberry beds were

entered, and the plants pulled up by the roots; the windows of the

village church and schoolhouse were broken with stones; and three

fourths of these acts were traced to little Myndert. He always denied

the charges, and put on an air of innocence, which deceived

many persons.

"The cunning which he exhibited in doing these malicious acts, and

trying to divert suspicion from himself, was truly wonderful in a child

of his age. One day he was caught by a farmer in the act of killing some

young chickens; and the owner was so mad, that he whipped the boy

soundly. That very night the farmer's wood shed was set on fire from the

outside; but a heavy rain came on, and put out the flames. The traces of

the fire were plainly to be seen next morning; and the farmer found

proofs enough, I fear, to have convicted my son of a felony.

"My friend informed me of all these facts in a very sorrowful letter,

and I hastened to take my son once more under my own roof.

"Here I tried every method that a father's love could devise to reform

him. But all was useless. He seemed to have no idea of truth or honor,

of affection or duty to me. When, at times, I thought he was showing

signs of improvement, I always found, afterward, that he was only

concealing his mischievous acts more carefully. I call them mischievous,

though the word 'malicious' would perhaps describe them better; for they

were all undertaken in a spirit of evil, and not of fun." The old

gentleman here rested, and refreshed himself with a sip of the cordial.

"But it would take days to tell you of all my troubles with that boy,

and I will briefly refer to the rest of them.

"By the advice of another friend (for I have never taken any step in the

treatment of my child without first seeking for friendly advice), I sent

him, when twelve years of age, to a celebrated school in Massachusetts,

where the discipline is very strict. I had a personal interview with the

master, and requested him, as a favor, to chastise Myndert, if all other

means failed to subdue him. Though I could not bear to whip him, I was

willing that he should suffer a proper punishment, inflicted in the

right spirit, from others. At this school he conducted himself properly

for about three weeks, and was taking a high rank as a scholar, when his

natural tastes asserted themselves, in all sorts of wicked pranks on his

fellow pupils, on the teachers, and on people in the village. The master

at first expostulated, and then gave Myndert a good thrashing. That

night the master narrowly escaped being hit by a large stone thrown

through his bedroom window. Next morning my son was missing, and for

three weeks no trace of him could be found. I advertised in newspapers,

describing him, and offering large rewards for his recovery. I had the

same notice printed on bills, and stuck up all through the country. I

employed detectives to trace out the runaway. A month passed, and no

tidings. I was in despair. Toward the close of the fifth week, one of

the detectives struck a trail on Cape Cod, and, after a patient search,

found the young rascal living, under the assumed name of Carlo, with a

fisherman, in a little seaside hamlet. As the fishing season was a good

one, and men were scarce, the fisherman had gladly received my son as

an apprentice for his board. The novelty, excitement, and sometimes

danger of the pursuit pleased Myndert greatly, and the old fisherman

said that he was a good hand for a boy. When the detective found him,

however, he was beginning to be tired of his strange occupation (nothing

pleases him long), and he consented to come home on condition that I

would not scold him, and would give him plenty of pocket money. I had

been weak enough to authorize the making of these promises.

"The return of my prodigal son made me happy. As I had promised, I did

not reproach him, and gave him all the money that he wished. He was not

old enough to know how to spend money viciously. His tastes, though

costly, were comparatively innocent. From childhood he had always been

very fond of new clothes, and he indulged that passion to the utmost. At

twelve years of age, he was called the 'Young Dandy' all through this

part of the town; and I sometimes heard of his attracting attention

on Broadway.

"He was so well satisfied with my generosity, that he consented to

receive two short lessons daily from tutors at the house, and surprised

them, as he did everybody, with his wonderful aptitude for learning."

CHAPTER II.

BUYING GOOD BEHAVIOR.

"For three years I bought my son's good behavior with unlimited pocket

money, and foolishly thought that his nature had changed. Occasionally

he would do malicious acts to his tutors, or to my housekeeper or

servants; but these occurred less frequently as time rolled on, and at

last ceased. At fifteen years of age, he was sufficiently advanced in

learning to pass a college examination, and I determined to send him to

college. He was delighted at the proposal, for he had begun now to

appreciate the advantages of education. Anticipating that he would have

trouble with the Faculty, I selected a college which was distinguished

for its means of learning, and was jet very lenient in its discipline.

Myndert easily obtained admission, and at once took high rank in his

class. Knowledge came so easy to him, that he had plenty of leisure, and

I feared that his old vicious habits would break out again. Greatly did

I rejoice not to hear a single complaint of him during his first term.

But, alas! I found, when he returned home, that he had learned to drink

and gamble, and that the large sums of money I had sent him had been

squandered in carousals, and over the card table. Still he maintained

the first position in his class, and of that I was proud.

"I remonstrated against his vices. He admitted that there was some truth

in what I had heard, mixed up with a great deal of exaggeration; and

justified his conduct by saying that it was the fashion, and he could

not keep out of it if he would. His good health and naturally high

spirits did not appear to be in the least affected by dissipation, and I

gladly allowed myself to believe that many of the reports about him

were false.

"The next term was still more expensive; and I found out that the larger

portion of my heavy outlay went for liquor and gambling. Still he kept a

high grade in his class--taking the second rank instead of the first;

and the Faculty either were ignorant of his misconduct, or did not think

it worth punishing. Through his first, second, and third years at

college, these were his only vices. His constitution, though strong, was

gradually undermined; and, at the end of his junior year, he showed

unmistakable signs of bloating, became very irregular in his attendance

on recitations, and had sunk to be the fifteenth in his class. I had

hopes that he would pass through his fourth year safely, and get a

diploma. But, at the very beginning of that year, he kept drunk, and

absented himself from recitations for a fortnight, and, when called

before the Faculty for a mild reprimand, cursed them with the most

horrible oaths, defied them, and left their presence. They had no

choice but to expel him from the college; and, a week after, he was

brought home to me nearly dead with intoxication.

"A month's illness followed, which brought him almost to the grave.

Though, at the time, I prayed with all a father's love for his recovery,

I have since thought--- oh, how often!--that it would have been far

better for him to have died. But he was spared; and, having been

thoroughly frightened by his narrow escape from the effects of

drunkenness, he vowed, on his recovery, that he would never touch

another drop of liquor. This pledge he kept for some months after his

health was fully restored.

"Having decided to educate him for the law--the only profession that he

did not hold in contempt--I procured a place for him in the office of

Mulroy, Biggup & Lartimore, an excellent firm with whom I had had

some dealings.

"Myndert entered upon his study of the profession with such ardor, that

I was obliged to caution him against ruining his health. But he only

laughed, and said he wanted to make up for past follies. I had never

before seen him in a penitent mood, and I was delighted. Mr. Mulroy, who

has had a hundred pupils in his time, told me that he never had a more

promising one than Myndert. He was a regular and constant attendant at

the office, and spent all his evenings at home. The natural strength of

his constitution came to his aid, as if to encourage him in his efforts

to reform; and, notwithstanding his severe studies, he began to look in

better health than he had ever been. Thus things went on six whole

weeks, and I was happy, and busied myself in framing plans for my son's

advancement in life.

"He told me, one day, that he had joined a club of young law students,

who met every evening and discussed legal points, held mock courts, and

thus sought to familiarize themselves with the duties of their

profession; and asked me if I approved of it. He sought my approval so

rarely for anything, that I freely gave it, cautioning him again,

however, to be careful of his health. He laughed at my apprehensions.

But I was pained to see how soon my fears proved true. Within a

fortnight, the rosy color of his cheeks had disappeared, and his eyes

were palpably sunken, dull, and marked with a sickly blue beneath. He

never returned home till midnight, and sometimes was out till three

o'clock in the morning. I scolded him for devoting so much time to his

law club; but he said that the members were, like himself, enthusiastic

students, and that he was always the first to leave their fascinating

debates and mimic trials. A week later, I marked the familiar bloat in

his cheeks, and suspected the truth.

"Placing a watch upon his movements--no easy matter, for he is very

shrewd and cautious--I soon found out that the law club was a myth, and

that his nights were passed in the wildest debauchery. He had not only

resumed all his old vices, but had acquired new ones.

"When I reproved him, as I did with just indignation, he threw off the

mask of concealment, which he said he was tired of wearing, and became

the same bold, defiant, reckless boy that he always was; while I

continued to be the same weak, foolish, fond parent. I cannot recount

the tortures inflicted upon me by my son since that fatal discovery. He

has not only abandoned all his law studies (having been expelled from

the office of Mulroy, Biggup & Lartimore for grossly insulting a young

female client), and utterly ruined his own body and soul, but, by his

acts, he has brought shame upon several families.

"When this new series of outrages came to my knowledge, I threatened to

disinherit him. He laughed at me. He knew how I loved him for his

mother's sake, and, with that hold upon my affections, he defied me.

"To heartless indifference he gradually added insults, and often cursed

me, his own father, in this very room, where his mother has rocked his

cradle a thousand times while she listened to my reading of an old poem

or novel. The last of his crimes of which I have heard, was brought to

my knowledge about six weeks ago. It was a piece of treachery the most

villanous, and I told my son, in plain words, what I thought of it. I

was weak and nervous from an illness which is hereditary in my family,

and I reprimanded him with more severity than usual. I told him, that if

God, in His infinite mercy, spared him, yet he was not secure from just

punishment from the friends of those whom he had wronged, and that the

human vengeance, which had been so long postponed, would surely come. He

looked at me with malice in his small gray eyes (not his mother's eyes),

and, when I ceased speaking, raised both hands to heaven, and, with the

most horrible blasphemy, called down its curses upon me; and then he

swore, that if I crossed his path, or thwarted his plans, or refused him

money, he would kill me.

"Just before he uttered this monstrous threat, I sprang from my chair

with horror, and caught him imploringly by both hands. I would have

saved him from that dreadful act, but I was too late. I saw him wrench

away his right hand, and raise it to strike me back.... I knew no more,

until Mrs. Frump, my niece, who has had charge of my household during

the past three years, entered the room, and found me stretched

insensible on the floor."

"I saw a part of the sad scene," said Marcus Wilkeson, who had listened

with mingled indignation and compassion to this strange tale. "Your son

was standing by that window, and you were sitting near him, also within

sight of me. I distinctly saw you catch your son's hands with your own;

he wrenched the right one away, and raised it; then you fell, but he did

not strike you, or attempt to. As you dropped to the floor, he glanced

anxiously through the window, saw me watching him, and then pulled down

the curtain."

"Then he did not strike me to the floor! I never believed he did, for

there was no bruise or other mark upon my head. Thank God, my son was

spared the commission of that crime! Bad as he is, he would not strike

his own father." And the poor old gentleman's heart found meagre

comfort, for a moment, in that thought.

"A few words more, and I am done. The shock brought my disease to a

crisis. For over a month my recovery was doubtful. But my naturally

tough constitution, skilful medical attendance, and the unceasing care

of Mrs. Frump, brought me safely out of it. The devotion of that good,

light-hearted woman was truly affecting. She never left my bedside,

night or day, except for a few hours' rest; and even to-day, when, as

you see, I am well enough to sit up and talk, and, in fact, am perfectly

restored to health, it was only by almost pushing her into the street

that I could get her to go out for a day's shopping--a luxury which the

good soul had denied to herself during all my illness."

("I must tell Maltboy about this excellent woman," thought Marcus,)

"My son did not come near my sickbed, and I have not seen him since that

unhappy day. He has visited the house daily, and shut himself in his

room for several hours. How he occupies his time, I cannot imagine, but

am sure that it is only in studying or practising evil."

"Possibly I may throw some light on that mystery," said Marcus. "I have

seen him, from my convenient window, enter his room, day after day,

generally in the afternoon, sit down at his table, and write for over an

hour steadily."

"That is strange!" exclaimed the old gentleman. "He has given up the

study of law. He has no taste for literary labor. He writes a beautiful

hand, and would not waste time in trying to improve his penmanship. It

is singular, indeed."

"His work, whatever it is, does not seem to satisfy him; for I have

observed that he no sooner fills a page with writing, than he burns it

to ashes by the gas jet, which he always keeps faintly lighted above

his head."

"Some more villany, I am sure," said the old gentleman, with a deep

sigh. "We shall find it out by its terrible consequences, in due time.

He has plenty of leisure to cultivate his vices, but not a moment to

seek my forgiveness (which, God knows, I would freely grant, if he would

only ask it). He cannot even throw away a word upon Mrs. Frump, to find

out whether his own father is dead or alive."

The last thought gave acute pain to the wretched parent. Tears again

sprang to his eyes, and Marcus feared that he was about to witness that

saddest sight in nature--an old man weeping.

But, by an effort, Mr. Van Quintem stifled his emotion, and, turning

suddenly upon his visitor, cried, in a voice of despair:

"Tell me, sir, in Heaven's name, what _shall I_ do with my son?"

CHAPTER III.

THE YOUNG MONSTER.

From boyhood, it had been Marcus Wilkeson's fortune (or the reverse) to

attract confidence, and to be sought out for advice. And it had most

generally happened that he was requested to bestow the last valuable

article in cases where inexperience absolutely disqualified him from

giving it.

He had found, however, that, when people ask for advice, they expect to

receive it, although they reserve to themselves the right, and, in

ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, exercise the privilege, of

rejecting it.

But Marcus had gathered, from the old gentleman's story, that the error

of his dealings with the rebellious son lay in his constantly seeking

advice from everybody, and taking it, too, instead of adopting some

firm, consistent, and independent course of his own toward that unfilial

monster. Furthermore, Marcus knew that the son was already beyond the

reach of reform. For the future peace of his venerable friend, and for

the good of society, he could have conscientiously recommended

two things:

First, the immediate hanging of Myndert Van Quintem, jr. Second, his

imprisonment for life in a penitentiary warranted to be strong enough

to hold him.

Neither of these courses being practicable until that young man had

entitled himself to the benefit of one or the other of them in the

legitimate way, Marcus Wilkeson had nothing to offer, and so he told the

old gentleman.

Mr. Van Quintem was disappointed. He looked up wistfully, and said:

"Can't you suggest something?"

Thus appealed to, Marcus angled in the deep waters of his mind, and

fished up this inadequate idea:

"Let him travel a couple of years in Europe."

"I have proposed it," returned the old gentleman, "but he won't, unless

I give him five thousand dollars, and an unlimited letter of credit.

This I refused. Besides, to tell the truth, I do not wish to exile the

boy, but to reform him at home."

Marcus was too polite to say bluntly that that was impossible; so he

cast in his line again at random, and drew out this worthless

suggestion:

"Stop all his pocket money, and tell him plainly that you will

disinherit him unless he reforms."

"My dear sir," replied the old gentleman, "that might do with some sons,

but not with mine. He would obtain money by theft, or even a worse

crime, and bring disgrace upon my gray hairs. He might go even

farther--for he has threatened it, as I told you--and murder me in

revenge. Besides, he is on short allowance now. I give him only thirty

dollars a week--less than a quarter of what he used to receive from me.

Much as his conduct deserves punishment, I could not reduce him to

beggary, you know."

This useless discussion was cut short by the precipitate entrance of the

subject of it. Mr. Van Quintem was greatly surprised at the sudden

apparition, and his face exhibited signs first of astonishment, then of

indignation, then of pleasure, in quick succession. But before his

erring son Had advanced halfway toward the father's chair, the father

turned his head slightly away, as if not daring to trust himself to an

interview.

The son took one sharp survey of Marcus, and then slipped his right hand

insinuatingly in that of his father, which hung over an arm of the easy

chair. Mr. Van Quintem turned his face farther away, but Marcus observed

that his fingers closed upon the hand which lay within them.

"Are you quite well, my dear father?" asked the son, in a low, hollow

voice, not meant to be overheard by the visitor.

"I am, thanks to God, and the doctor, and my niece," said the father,

stealing a side look at his son.

"And no thanks to me, I know that. I feared, my dear father, after what

had occurred, that you could not bear the sight of me. Therefore I kept

away from your bedside."

"That is a lame excuse, Myndert," replied the father. He spoke in a

voice intended to be audible to Marcus Wilkeson.

A gleam in the son's sunken eyes, and a new pallor on his bloated

cheeks, indicated his displeasure at the turn which this conversation

was taking. He withdrew his hand, and said, in a deep whisper:

"I did not think you would quarrel with me, when I called to

congratulate you on your recovery."

Mr. Van Quintem wavered a moment. Then, looking at the calm face of

Marcus Wilkeson, as if to gather strength from it, he replied:

"My son, such language is not respectful to your father. You know, as

God knows, that I have been too indulgent with you."

The son coolly twirled the ends of his mustache--which protruded from

each side of his mouth like the antennae of a catfish--and gazed

impudently in his father's face. Then he turned about, and bestowed

another scornful, analyzing look on the tranquil Marcus.

"That is a friend of mine, Myndert, and I have no secrets from him. Mr.

Wilkeson--my son."

Marcus politely rose, and offered his hand to the young man, who

accepted it reluctantly.

"I have seen you before, I believe," said he. "Across the way, eh?"

"I dare say," was the reply. "I sometimes sit at the window, reading."

Myndert then abruptly faced his fatherland Marcus resumed his chair.

"Since you have no secrets from this gentleman," said the son, "allow me

to ask if you could conveniently spare five hundred dollars

this morning?"

The old gentleman hesitated; then reassured himself by an observation of

Marcus Wilkeson's face, and said:

"No, my son; I can no longer encourage this extravagance. Where is your

last monthly allowance?"

"Gone, of course," answered the son, in a loud and insolent tone. "Do

you expect to keep me on miserable driblets like that?"

"Thirty dollars a week, and board and lodging, are enough for any

reasonable young man, Myndert. I cannot give you more."

The son glared on his father and Marcus Wilkeson (holding the latter

chiefly responsible for the refusal) with amazement.

"Since you are obstinate, then, make it three hundred." The son had

often been able to obtain half or two thirds of what he originally

asked, as a compromise.

Again the old gentleman wavered; and it was not until he had looked

Marcus Wilkeson straight in the eye, that he answered, striking the arm

of the chair with his thin white hand:

"Not one cent!"

The tumid cheeks assumed a sicklier white, and the small, offensive eyes

sparkled with a fiercer fury, as the son replied:

"Very well, sir. Be as stingy as you please. Take the advice of your new

friend here, and cut off my beggarly monthly allowance, too. But

remember, I must have money, and I will have it!"

Had Marcus Wilkeson not been present, the father might have been brought

to terms by this vague but dreadful threat. But now he shook his head,

as an intimation that nothing could move him.

"You have taken your own course, sir," continued the son, through his

closed teeth. "I shall take mine. Don't forget my last words. As for

you, sir," turning to Marcus Wilkeson, "we shall probably meet again."

Marcus urbanely responded that nothing could give him greater pleasure.

The son, darting a last malignant look at his father, whose face was

happily averted, strode out of the room, slamming the door, and

afterward the street door, with increased emphasis.

When he had gone, the father said to his visitor, feebly:

"Have I done right?"

"Precisely. Your conduct was firm, prudent, and will have a good

effect."

"I hope so--I hope so. But don't you think, now, I was a little too

severe--to begin with, I mean? I fear that my son will be driven to

crime; and that would kill me."

"I regard his threats as only empty words," replied Marcus. He has found

them useful heretofore, and he tries them now. Having learned that they

do not longer frighten you, he will never employ them again. That is one

point gained. If he is really bad enough to commit a crime for money,

your misjudged kindness will not prevent him, but will rather encourage

his evil disposition."

"There is truth in what you say," replied the old gentleman, faintly;

"but I--I--fear."

The protracted conversation, and the suppressed agony of the past few

minutes, were too much for the old gentleman to bear on his first day of

convalescence. He suddenly turned very pale, and his head drooped.

Marcus threw open a window, and held the cordial to his lips. As Marcus

was applying this restorative, without any perceptible benefit, the door

opened, and Mrs. Frump ran in, red in the face, and quite out of breath.

"Excuse me, sir. I am Mrs. Frump, Mr. Van Quintem's niece."

"I am Mr. Wilkeson, a friend of Mr. Van Quintem," said Marcus, hastily

introducing himself; "and I am glad you are come."

"Yes, I see. Fainted away. Revive in a moment. Fresh air. Cordial, Quite

right. Now a little water on his forehead."

Mrs. Frump made her sentences short, to accommodate her breath.

As she passed a cool sponge across the patient's brow, she said:

"I knew it would be so. He has been here. I saw him round the corner.

Looking pale and mad."

"You are right, madam. He _has_ been here."

Mrs. Frump's pleasant little eyes shone with unnatural anger, and there

was a presage of wrathful words in her quivering lips. Mrs. Frump was

desperately trying to keep back certain private opinions that she had

long entertained, but proved unequal to the effort. She burst out with:

"He's an undutiful son, sir. A monster, sir. And he's killing his poor

father. He's--"

"Ah! what?" said Mr. Van Quintem, opening his eyes, and looking wildly

around, like one who wakes from a horrible dream.

"It's I. Your niece--Gusty," replied Mrs. Frump, changing her assumed

harsh tones into her natural soft ones "And I think you had better go to

bed. Please take hold, Mr. Wilkeson, and assist him to the next room."

She added, in a whisper, "Don't talk with him any more to-day."

Mr. Wilkeson nodded, raised his eyebrows to signify that he appreciated

the advice, and proceeded at once to aid Mrs. Frump in her benevolent

task. The old gentleman had considerably revived by this time.

"You are right, my dear Gusty," said he, looking fondly at his niece.

"You are always right. And you are right, too, sir," he added, turning

to Marcus. "Ah, if I had known such a good adviser years ago."

Marcus, remembering Mrs. Frump's injunction, made no answer to this

remark.

When the old gentleman had been led tottering into the adjacent parlor,

which was fitted up as his bedroom, and placed comfortably on a high

prop of pillows, Marcus drew out his watch, made an amiable pretence of

very important business down town, and bade his venerable friend

"good-by."

"I had hoped you could stay longer; for I feel that you are a true

friend, and I can confide my sorrows to you," murmured the old

gentleman, taking his guest fondly by the hand.

But Marcus, fortified by another significant look from Mrs. Frump,

declared that business was imperative, and he must go. He would call

to-morrow, without fail, and hoped to find his friend as cheerful as a

cricket. The old gentleman smiled at the absurdity of that hope, and

said he should depend on seeing him to-morrow.

So, shaking hands warmly with Mr. Van Quintem, and bowing most

respectfully to Mrs. Frump, Marcus took his departure, and meditated, as

he walked slowly home, on the strange occurrences of the day.

CHAPTER IV.

WESLEY TIFFLES.

One evening, shortly after the events narrated in the last chapter, the

three bachelors, having finished dinner, and escaped from the grim

presence of Miss Philomela Wilkeson, took their accustomed seats and

pipes in the little back parlor. The curtains were drawn, the gas was

lighted, the fire burning brightly, and, upon these outward tokens of

cheer, the three bachelors reflected contentment and happiness from

their six eyes. In his own opinion, each of the three had unlimited

cause to be happy; and not even that killjoy of the household, Miss

Wilkeson, could mar the completeness of their felicity--when she was

not present.

Fayette Overtop was blessed with the thought, that in Mrs. Slapman he

had found, at last, that rare bird for which he had patiently hunted

through the valleys and uplands of society--"a sensible woman." The

intellectual sympathy which was enkindled between them on the memorable

occasion of their first meeting, had grown warmer at each successive

interview--first at a supper party, second at a _conversazione_, and

third at a private theatrical and musical entertainment, to all of which

Mr. Overtop had been invited, with the particular compliments of the

liberal hostess.

During this pleasant acquaintance, Mr. Overtop had made the

extraordinary discovery that Mrs. Slapman was married, and that the thin

little man whom he saw dodging up the stairs on New Year's day was

her husband.

It would be difficult to explain, on behalf of Mr. Overtop, a phenomenon

which Mr. Overtop was never able to explain to the satisfaction of the

gossip-loving public, or of his best friends. We therefore content

ourselves with merely stating the fact, that Mr. Overtop's admiration

for Mrs. Slapman was purely intellectual; that he was fascinated by her

vivacious intellect, and not by her substantial person; by the charm of

her manners, and not of her face. He looked upon Mrs. Slapman as a

masculine mind and soul, of uncommon depth, made powerfully magnetic by

its enshrinement in a feminine form. Overtop once told Matthew Maltboy,

that he knew, in his own experience, the meaning of Platonic love. But

Matthew, who was a sad materialist even in his sentimental moods,

laughed at him, and winked. Overtop positively felt hurt at this unkind

reception of his confidences, and never again alluded to the state of

his feelings toward Mrs. Slapman, until subsequent occurrences made it

necessary in self-defence.

With Mr. Slapman he was not personally acquainted; but he had

ascertained privately, from a musical frequenter of the house, who

invariably brought his flute with him, and who was understood to be the

oldest friend of the family, that Mr. Slapman owned a large property in

wild land in Pennsylvania, not a hundred miles from New York; that he

was improving it, and selling it out in building lots, and had already

cleared a handsome fortune; that he was a strict business man, and

looked after his affairs in person, passing between New York and

Slapmansville (the name of the new settlement) twice a week, and

spending the larger part of his time at the latter place. Also that,

next to avarice, which was his crowning trait, his chief fault was

jealousy. It galled him to think that his wife had obtained a settlement

in bank from him before marriage, which enabled her to indulge her

tastes for society; and it enraged him still more to observe how much

she was loved and admired by others, when he had purchased her

exclusively for his private love and admiration. He it was who was to be

sometimes seen stalking through the parlors with a pale face, or running

up and down the front staircase in a state of great nervous agitation.

None of Mrs. Slapman's visitors had the pleasure of his personal

acquaintance; and it was considered a point of good breeding not to

allude to him in her presence.

For this misguided man Fayette Overtop felt a real pity. He yearned to

expostulate with him gently, as a friend. Taking Mr. Slapman's hand in

his own, he would have said:

"Your wife is a precious gift to the world. Seek not to check the

outflow of her ardent nature. Thank Heaven that you are the custodian of

such a treasure, not to be selfishly monopolized by yourself, but held

in trust for the benefit of society."

Overtop's meditations, on this particular occasion, pertained to the

style of the costume which would most become him as the lover of Mrs.

Slapman, in an original play to be enacted at her house toward the close

of the week. The question was chiefly of knee breeches. Overtop was

mentally debating whether he ought not, in justice to his thin legs, to

substitute an ampler style of integuments.

Matthew Maltboy had also been invited to this _soirée dramatique_ (as

Mrs. Slapman's large pasteboards expressed it). A fat man was a

necessity of the play. Mrs. Slapman was not cordial to Matthew,

regarding him as an excessively commonplace person, and had invited him

to her social gatherings out of courtesy to Overtop; but her artist eye

saw in him a fitness for the fat man. Matthew was delighted with the

implied compliment to those talents for the stage which every man

supposes himself to possess in some degree, and cheerfully undertook

the part.

The proprieties of costume did not in the least perplex Mr. Maltboy, as

he lay on the sofa digesting his dinner, and puffing out smoke rings by

the dozen. His thoughts were mildly fixed on that delightful Miss

Whedell. Five times he had been graciously permitted to visit the lady

at her house, and to discover a score of new charms at each interview. A

large experience in love making assured him that the object of his

idolatry was not wholly indifferent to him. The paternal Whedell had

hobbies. Matthew had studied them, like a skilful strategist, catered to

them, and felt quite sure that he had that revered individual on his

side. But, in the midst of these pleasant imaginings, there rose the

dark and baleful image of Chiffield!

Marcus Wilkeson was also pondering--pleasantly, if one might judge from

the contented smile upon his lips. The subject of his thoughts was one

which, for reasons that seemed good to him, he still kept secret from

his fellow bachelors. He had freely told them of his singular adventure

at the house of the old gentleman opposite; but not a word of the

inventor and his daughter, and of the private school at Miss Pillbody's.

Not even the minute and sometimes tedious accounts which Overtop and

Maltboy gave of their private thoughts and experiences, could induce

Marcus to reciprocate their confidence. For the first time in his life

he wore a mask before his companions, and prevaricated, and became, on a

small scale, a humbug.

The sharp ringing of the doorbell broke in upon the quiet reflections of

the three bachelors. Mash, the cook, who was at that moment reading the

fifteenth chapter of "The Buttery and the Boudoir: A Tale of Real Life,"

in her favorite weekly, threw down the paper in a passion, bounded up

stairs, and admitted John Wesley Tiffles, or Wesley Tiffles, as he

always subscribed himself on promissory notes and other worthless paper.

Mr. Tiffles chucked Mash familiarly under the chin (resented with a

scornful look by Mash, who had learned from "The Buttery and the

Boudoir" to set a proper value on herself), and then walked straight to

the parlor, like one who knew he was a welcome guest.

And he was right. For when he opened the door, and disclosed to the

three bachelors the well-known laughing eyes, hopeful face, and spare

figure of Wesley Tiffles, they hailed him with enthusiasm. He was a

walking cure for despondency, although he sometimes charged too high, in

the shape of borrowed money, for his professional services. But neither

of the three bachelors had yet sustained that pecuniary tax which Wesley

Tiffles always levied upon his friends, just before leaving them

forever. They formed a part of his reserve corps, which had latterly

been sadly thinned out in Mr. Tiffles's desperate contest with

the world.

Mr. Tiffles shook hands with Marcus Wilkeson, giving him the grip of

some unknown Order, slapped Overtop on the back, and playfully pulled

the whiskers of Maltboy. Then he filled a pipe, threw himself into a

chair, adjusted his legs in the true form of a compass, and opened his

coat ostentatiously. All this in about ten seconds, and with a geniality

that defied reproof. He was the very embodiment of cheer.

"Prepare to be astonished," said Mr. Tiffles, after his third whiff. "I

have a splendid idea." The three bachelors smiled, and nodded an

intimation that they were prepared,

"I have had some impracticable notions in my time; but this _is_ good,

and you'll say so. You know that dog, Mark, two doors below--the large

yellow one, with cropped ears, and a tail like the handle of a

shaving brush?"

Mr. Wilkeson replied that he had the pleasure of the animal's

acquaintance,

"Well, as I was passing the dog's house on my way here, I slipped in the

snow. The dog, always on the alert for victims, took a mean advantage of

my situation, and jumped after me through the open gate. I scrambled to

my feet, but not before he had fastened his teeth in my right leg----"

"Good heavens! was he mad?" cried Overtop, who had a horror of dogs, and

made wide circuits about them in the street.

"Can't say as to that," replied Wesley Tiffles, "but advise you to keep

shy of him for the future, I was about to say that he bit me through the

leg of my trowsers. And on that very instant, as if by inspiration, I

caught--not the hydrophobia, but a magnificent idea. Having got on my

pins, I kicked the dog into his front yard, and immediately worked the

idea into shape. You'll be sure to like it."

Marcus Wilkeson, speaking for self and friends, said he had no doubt of

that. Mr. Tiffles's ideas always possessed the merit of novelty.

"That means that they have no other merit!" returned Tiffles, laughing,

"Very true of most of them, I confess all my failures. But here is an

idea which even you, skeptic as you are, will grant to be not only

novel, but great. You have all observed, gentlemen, the immense

differences in dogs. There are white, black, brown, gray, yellow (like

our suggestive canine friend two doors below), tan-colored,

mouse-colored, striped, and spotted dogs. There are round dogs, square

dogs, long dogs, short dogs, tall dogs, and low dogs. There are

full-grown dogs that weigh less than a pound, and others that kick the

beam at a hundred pounds. There are dogs that are pretty much all tail,

and there are dogs that have no tail to speak of. Among all the dogs

that you meet in the street, do you ever see two exactly alike?"

Fayette Overtop, who spoke from extensive and minute observation,

unhesitatingly said "No."

"True! Nature never repeats herself in dogs. In so doing, Nature works

directly for my benefit, as I will show you. Now, in the second place,

as you are probably aware, there is an ordinance forbidding unmuzzled

dogs to run in the streets during the hot months--"

"An excellent law," interrupted Overtop.

"If caught at large without muzzles, they are taken to the public pound,

and, unless redeemed by the owners within twenty-four hours, are drowned

in a tub--"

"Serve 'em right," remarked the hydrophobiac bachelor.

"Now, I am _slightly_ acquainted with some members of the Common

Council" (he laid emphasis on the word "slightly," to imply that he was

on terms of the closest intimacy with them), "and can easily obtain from

them the privilege of catching all the stray dogs, and taking them out

of the country next summer."

"Which would be very benevolent to the dogs; and, regarded from their

point of view, your idea is a noble one," thoughtfully observed Marcus

Wilkeson. "But I don't, at this moment, exactly see how you are

benefited by it."

Mr. Tiffles smiled with the consciousness of power, and chidingly said:

"You are dull this morning, Mark--quite dull. Strike, but hear! In a

word, then, I propose to exhibit two or three hundred of these dogs, in

some country where there are _no_ dogs. I would give them strange names,

put them in cages, and call them the 'American Menagerie of Trained

Animals.' A person who had never seen dogs, would suppose each one to be

a different species from the others--just as the lion, the tiger, and

the leopard are different, though all belonging to the one cat family.

Now, there is my idea. What do you think of it? Of course, you laugh,

at first."

Roars of laughter from the three bachelors had formed the chorus of

"Wesley Tiffles's closing sentences. Marcus Wilkeson, as became his age,

was the first to recover himself.

"The idea is a splendid one. None better. But there is one slight

difficulty in the way. Where are you to find your country that has no

dogs? If there were such a happy land on the face of this earth, Overtop

would have hunted it up long ago, and moved there."

Overtop laughingly replied, "That's so." He then informed Mr. Tiffles,

while admitting the theoretical excellence of his idea, that every

nation had its dogs as well as its fleas. Those two friends of man were

impartially distributed over the terrestrial globe. Overtop referred to

the standard Cyclopaedias, and several works on Natural History, in

proof of his assertion.

"Can't be! can't be!" retorted Wesley Tiffles, who was at first disposed

to defend his brilliant idea. But brilliant ideas were a common growth

of his fertile mind, and, like all things easily produced, he held them

cheaply. The moment that evidence, or the test of practice, showed them

to be fallacious, he gave them up, and drew upon his brain for others.

So, after a second's reflection, he added:

"Perhaps you are right. Dogs are not exactly in my line, after all. But

the idea, as an idea, was magnificent."

As Wesley Tiffles spoke, he repeated the act, for the twentieth time, of

throwing back his overcoat (a little seedy), and opening his vest, as if

to draw attention to his shirt front, whose natural whiteness was toned

down by a delicate neutral tint. Immediately afterward, he placed his

hand on a small breastpin in the centre of the shirt front, and turned

it to the right and left. It sparkled for the first time in the rays of

the fire, and revealed to the experienced eyes of the three bachelors

simultaneously, that Wesley Tiffles was the wearer of a real diamond.

"Excuse me," said Marcus Wilkeson, who divined that Tiffles wished his

diamond to be remarked upon, "but that is pretty!"

"Pretty! What?" said Tiffles, looking about the room.

"That diamond."

"Oh! the diamond. Perhaps you would like to look at it?" (hands it round

for inspection). "Cost forty dollars. Rather a hard draw on my

exchequer" (that was Mr. Tiffles's word for a friend's pocket); "but I

considered it a most judicious investment for a young man just going

into business."

The novelty of this idea was not lost on Fayette Overtop. "Pray explain,

Tiffles," said he.

"Cheerfully," said Tiffles, replacing the gem in his shirt front, after

it had been duly handled and admired. "Nobody will acknowledge that he

is taken in by a diamond. He will say, 'Anybody can buy a diamond, by

saving up thirty or forty dollars; and why should I believe a man to be

rich who wears one?' Yet, in his heart of hearts, he does believe it,

unless the possessor of the diamond has the bad taste to dress flashily.

Then he passes for an impostor, and people will doubt, even against

their own senses, the genuineness of the stone. But let him dress

plainly, as I do," continued Mr. Tiffles, stroking down the left leg of

his black trowsers, shiny with wear, "and that little diamond shall

stand, in the eyes of the whole world, as the representative of a fat

bank account, a brown stone house, and a couple of corner lots."

Marcus and Matthew laughed, but Fayette Overtop, who absolutely revelled

in paradoxes, said, "True, Tiffles, true!"

"Don't think," pursued Tiffles, "that I expected to impose on you with

it. You know that I am a poor devil, living on my wits." (Tiffles was

delightfully frank with his intimate acquaintances.) "I hold out this

glittering bait, not for my friends, but for my old foe and natural

enemy, the world. You must know that I am on the eve of a grand

speculation--probably the grandest I have ever undertaken."

"Another plan of advertising with large kites by day, and pictorial

lanterns attached to their tails at night?" asked Marcus Wilkeson.

"Or another Submarine Pneumatic Parcel-Delivering Tube to Brooklyn?"

asked Matthew Maltboy.

"Or an Association for the Cultivation of Mushrooms in Dark Cellars?"

asked Fayette Overtop.

"Capital hits!" replied Wesley Tiffles, who took an unfeigned delight in

a friendly allusion to his failures. "But allow me to inform you

definitely, that those unfortunate speculations are not to be revived.

Like the lightning, I don't strike twice in the same place. No; the

project upon which I am now engaged is one so eminently practical, so

free from all that is visionary, that you will wonder how I thought of

it. That project is a PANORAMA OF AFRICA!"

CHAPTER V.

THE PANORAMA OF AFRICA

The three bachelors concurred in the opinion that the idea was a good

one; but Marcus Wilkeson suggested that the field was too large.

"I thought you would like the general proposition," said Tiffles. "But,

bless you, Mark! I don't mean to paint the whole continent, from stem to

stern, so to speak; only the undiscovered part of Central Africa--say

from Cape Guardafui on the east to the Bight of Benin on the west."

"But how the deuce," asked Matthew Maltboy, "are you, or anybody else,

going to paint what has not been discovered?"

Tiffles could hardly suppress a smile at the simplicity of the question.

"Why," said he, "that's easy enough. Don't all the geographers tell us

that the interior of Africa is made up, so far as known, of alternate

deserts and jungles, like the patches on a coverlet? Very well. I

conform to this general principle of the continent. I put half of the

canvas in desert, and the rest in jungle, and I can't be far out of the

way. Take the idea?"

"Perfectly," said Matthew Maltboy; "but if you have nothing but

alternate, deserts and jungles, it strikes me your panorama will be a

little monotonous. Perhaps I am wrong." (Maltboy always offered

suggestions timidly.)

"I have thought of that, and guarded against it. I shall fill the

jungles with animated life--elephants, lions, tigers, panthers,

leopards, rhinoceroses, hippopotamuses, giraffes, zebras, crocodiles,

boa constrictors, and other specimens of natural history indigenous to

that delightful region."

"Good!" cried Overtop; "and if you will take a hint from me, you will

show your elephants in the act of being caught by natives, or engaged in

combats with each other; your lions fighting your tigers or your

rhinoceroses; your hippopotamuses engaged in death struggles with your

crocodiles; and your boa constrictors gobbling down your natives--or, if

that is objectionable on the score of humanity, your monkeys."

"Thank you for the hint; but the expense, and the necessity of

completing the panorama at an early day, put it out of the question. To

paint accurate representations of these animals engaged in their

innocent sports, would occupy the time of a first-class artist for

months, and cost an enormous sum."

"Ah, I see," interrupted Overtop, who liked to show that he snatched the

meaning; "you will put your animals in recumbent attitudes--sleeping,

perhaps, in the depth of jungles, shaded from the fierce rays of the

equatorial sun."

"You have guessed it," said Tiffles, with a broad smile. "Most of them

will be just there--out of sight. The others will be suggested rather

than introduced. Elephants will be signified by their trunks appearing

above the tops of the dense undergrowth. Lions, tigers, and other

quadrupeds, by the tips of their tails. A boa constrictor will be

expressed by a head, a coil, and a bit of tail showing at intervals. The

one horn of the rhinoceros will always tell where _he_ is. I shall have

two small lakes (they are scarce in Africa) for my hippopotamuses and

crocodiles. If they exhibit only small portions of their heads above the

surface, that is not my fault. It is the nature of the beasts,

you know."

"Ha! ha! That is what I call Art concealing Art," said Overtop.

"So it is," returned Tiffles; "and it will be appreciated, I doubt not,

by those who affect the school of Severe Simplicity in painting."

"One thing more," said Marcus Wilkeson. "Do you intend to take the

panorama through the country, and lecture on it?"

"I do. And here let me say, that I read up the law of false pretences

long ago. I shall style myself Professor Wesley on the bills. That I

have a right to do, as my full name doesn't look well in type. Actors

and singers do the same thing every day. I shall call myself a great

traveller. This is strictly true. I have been North to Boston, West to

Detroit, and South to Baltimore. I shall not say that I have been in

Africa, or that the sketches were taken on the spot. If my audience

choose to infer _that_, that is their business. If any one doubts the

accuracy of my panorama, I can say triumphantly, 'Prove it!'"

"Excellent, but a little risky," said Marcus Wilkeson, who could not

help admiring the audacity of the plan. "Your next great difficulty will

be to satisfy audiences after you have got them together, as I dare say

you will, by some brilliant system of advertising. I have heard--perhaps

you have--of audiences breaking furniture, smashing chandeliers, and

tarring and feathering people."

"All that has been thought of," was the reply. "Before I leave the city,

I shall give a private exhibition of the panorama to a few ministers of

various denominations, in the lecture room of some up-town church.

Ministers, you know, are debarred by their profession from attending the

opera and theatres, and will catch at the chance to see a panorama for

nothing. In private life, they are capital people, as a class--I have

known several of them--and will willingly certify that the panorama is a

highly moral, instructive, and interesting exhibition. I think I can

rely on my persuasive powers for that much. These certificates I shall

print on my posters and handbills. They will draw moral audiences. Moral

audiences do not break furniture, &c., &c. Comprehend my line of

argument?"

"Perfectly," said Marcus; "and very ingenious, _as_ an argument."

"I thought you would like it. And now, to drop the subject, I want you

three fellows to come up to my rooms, No. 121, third floor, Bartholomew

Buildings, Broadway--you remember--and see this great work of art, early

next week."

"Is it nearly finished?" asked Marcus.

"Yes--in my mind's eye. That is the main thing. The painting has not yet

been begun. It will be a very simple matter. The canvas will be about

four hundred feet long. One half of it will be a dead level of yellow

paint, for desert; and the rest, perpendicular stripes of green paint,

for jungle. A good artist, with a whitewash brush and two tubsful of

paint, ought to do up the whole panorama in two days. The heads and

tails of animated life, the two small lakes, and a few other objects of

interest, such as the sun, the moon, birds flying in the air, &c., could

be put in afterward by an artist of higher grade. And, by the way, now I

think of it, I may as well open with a sunrise off Cape Guardafui, and a

distant view of the Straits of Babel Mandel, give a passing glance at

the sources of the Nile, which lie in that undiscovered region, a brief

glimpse at the Mountains of the Moon, and wind up with a splendid sunset

in the Bight of Benin. It--"

Mr. Tiffles's observations were cut short by the sudden entrance of Miss

Philomela Wilkeson. She shot rapidly into the room, but, when her eyes

rested on Mr. Tiffles, she recoiled with maiden modesty, and stepped

back as if to beat a retreat. Then, recovering her self-possession in a

small measure, she stepped forward again, and said, in the blandest of

tones, with just the least virgin coyness:

"I thought perhaps I had left my scissors here this afternoon."

Messrs. Wilkeson, Overtop, and Maltboy asserted, without rising from

their seats, that they had not seen her scissors, and doubted very much

whether the scissors were in that room. But Wesley Tiffles, who was the

most polite and obliging of mortals when there was a lady in the case,

rose respectfully upon her entrance, and insisted upon searching the

apartment for the missing tool.

Miss Wilkeson, thus being placed under obligations to Mr. Tiffles, was

compelled to take personal cognizance of him, which she did with the

nearest approach to a blush that she was ever known to make. "I beg,

sir, that you will not trouble yourself. I--I do not think the scissors

are here, after all."

"That can be ascertained only by searching, miss," replied Tiffles. Then

he glided about the room in his own nimble fashion, looking behind the

two vases on the mantelpiece, raking over the littered burden of the

table in the corner, and peering and poking into every place where there

was the least likelihood of finding a stray pair of scissors; Miss

Wilkeson all the while deprecating any further search.

Mr. Tiffles suddenly stopped, like a dragonfly in the midst of his

angular dartings, and said: "Since your scissors are not to be found, it

is fortunate that I have a pocket pair, which are always at your

service." Mr. Tiffles produced the ill-omened article, and handed it to

her. This called out a new lot of thanks, regrets for having troubled

him, apologies, and a peremptory refusal to take his scissors,

immediately followed by their acceptance, and a promise that she would

take the best care of them, and return them to the owner on his

next visit.

Then was the auspicious moment for Miss Wilkeson to have retired with

dignity; but she stood at the door, twirling the fatal scissors in her

hand, and waiting either to say something which did not come

spontaneously, or to have something said to her.

Marcus Wilkeson saw a subtle motive in this awkward tarrying at the

door, and, having no objection to gratifying it, he straightway

introduced Mr. Wesley Tiffles to Miss Philomela Wilkeson. Mr. Tiffles

put himself into the form of an L, like a professional acrobat; and Miss

Wilkeson executed a courtesy in the old, exploded style. Then, as if

appalled at what she had done, she backed into the entry as fast as she

had come from it.

Mr. Tiffles, upon whom the small events of life made no impression,

thought no more of Miss Wilkeson that evening, but smoked three pipes,

told two funny stories, sang one comic song, and then went home, having

previously exacted from the three bachelors a promise to call at his

rooms and see at least one half of the panorama completed, on the

following day week.

Since Miss Wilkeson had been an inmate of that house, she had seen

Wesley Tiffles perhaps a dozen times, in the entry or on the doorsteps,

and had been impressed with his gentlemanlike air, his quick black eyes,

and his deferential manner toward her. Everybody is supposed to have a

realized ideal somewhere, if he or she could only find it. Such was

Wesley Tiffles to Philomela Wilkeson. Let it be confessed at once. The

lost scissors were all the time quietly resting at the bottom of Miss

Wilkeson's workbag, and she knew it. The prevalent frailty of human

nature must be her excuse.

She had-obtained not only an introduction to Wesley Tiffles, but a pair

of scissors which must be returned to him, and were therefore a bond of

friendship. But Miss Wilkeson forgot the fatality which the proverb

attaches to gifts or loans of that particular article of cutlery.

BOOK FIFTH.

MANOEUVRES.

CHAPTER I.

STOLEN--MOKE THAN A PURSE.

One morning, as Marcus Wilkeson was idly turning the pages of a

blue-and-gold favorite, the doorbell rang. In accordance with some

mysterious law of acoustics, the sound was full three minutes descending

the kitchen staircase, entering the keyhole of the kitchen door, and

striking on the tympanum of Mash, the cook, who was sitting by the fire,

reading the twenty-fifth chapter of "The Buttery and the Boudoir: A Tale

of Real Life." When Mash became fully conscious (which was not till the

end of the chapter) that the bell had rung, she expelled a sigh from her

fat chest, and wiped the tears from her eyes with the end of her clean

apron, and then went to the door with a noble resignation to her lot.

There she found a stout elderly woman, bearing a note for "Marcus

Wilkeson, Esq."

"Lor'! how slow you are!" said the stout woman, handing the letter to

her.

Mash, who had read, in the twenty-third chapter, of the overwhelming way

in which the heroine cook had answered an insult by dignified silence,

said not a word in reply, but took the note, and slammed the door in the

stout woman's face.

The exclamation "Bah!" and certain indistinct mutterings which were

audible through the panels, convinced Mash that, by her self-denial, she

had won a moral victory. It was with a feeling of excusable pride that

she walked into the back parlor, and delivered the note to

Marcus Wilkeson.

"Thank you, Mash," said he. It was a singular illustration of his

excessive politeness, that he was no less grateful for paid services

than for free.

Mash retired, thinking to herself that, if Mr. Wilkeson were only a

pirate, a smuggler, a guerilla chieftain, or a dashing fellow in some

unlawful, dangerous business, a few years younger, he would be a

perfect hero.

Marcus did not recognize the handwriting of the address. Tearing open

the envelope, he read the following lines, hastily scrawled on a bit of

blue paper:

Wednesday, A.M.

MARCUS WILKESON, ESQ.:

SIR: Please come over and see me immediately. I have

something important to communicate.

Your obedient servant,

ELIPHALET MINFORD."

"Something must be wrong," said Marcus; and startling thoughts then

occurred to him. "Has her hard studying brought on illness? It can't be.

She was well enough last evening. What can be the matter?"

Marcus Wilkeson's temperament was of that unfortunate nervous sort which

is thrown off its balance by the slightest shock. His frame trembled as

he put on his overcoat and hat; and, when he looked in the mirror, he

noticed that his face was paler than usual, and his eyes were glassy.

"Pooh! what a sensitive fool I am!" said he.

He walked hurriedly to Mr. Minford's, and mounted the long, creaking

staircases, two steps at a time, tormenting himself all the way with

vague apprehensions of evil.

When he entered the room, without knocking (as was his custom of late),

he found the inventor standing in front of his machine, with bare arms,

hard at work. Marcus nervously said, "Good morning," and stepped forward

to shake him by the hand, but stopped when he saw that Mr. Minford

averted his face, and did not move.

"I wished to show you a letter which I received a few minutes ago," said

the inventor, still not facing Marcus, but busily filing off the rough

edge of a brass wheel fresh from the mould. "There it is, on the table."

Marcus caught up the letter, and read the following:

NEW YORK, Wednesday Forenoon.

MR. MINFORD:

RESPECTED SIR: Allow a true friend and well wisher to ask a

few questions. Who is this Mr. Marcus Wilkeson that has

suddenly taken such an interest in your family affairs? What

is his private history? Why is he relieving you from all

trouble and expense in the education of your beautiful child?

What are the man's _real_ motives? Would it not be well to

spare your eyes from your invention long enough to look into

these matters a little? Pardon the suggestion. The office of

a spy, and a secret accuser, is an unpleasant, and, perhaps,

a thankless one. I should never have assumed it, but for the

fact that your ardent devotion to science may render you the

easy dupe--and your daughter the innocent victim--of a

designing and heartless man of the world. I do not ask you to

believe the writer of an anonymous note, and therefore I make

no specific charges against this Wilkeson; but merely ask you

to inquire into his private character, and, above all, his

MOTIVES, for yourself.

ONE OF MANY.

Though Marcus Wilkeson was as innocent as a child, in deed and thought,

of the baseness hinted at in this letter, he felt that he was looking

guilty. Astonishment and indignation kindled in his eyes; but a flush of

shame mounted at the same time to his cheeks. Marcus had often said,

that if he were tapped on the shoulder in the street, and charged with a

petty theft, he would look guilty of grand larceny until he could regain

command of his feelings. This diseased sensitiveness, inherited from his

mother, was the curse of his physical and mental organization.

His shame was increased by a consciousness that the inventor was

stealthily watching him, and studying the enlargement of those horrid

red spots on his cheeks.

"When Marcus finished the letter, he put on an expression of outraged

innocence--which matched poorly with the flaming tokens of

guilt--and said:

"These are infernal lies, sir; and, if I knew the coward who wrote them,

I would cram them down his throat."

"Of course they are lies," returned Mr. Minford. "Every anonymous letter

writer is a liar--until it is proved that he tells the truth. I shall

believe none of these low aspersions on your honor, Mr. Wilkeson,

without conclusive evidence." As the inventor said this, not

emphatically, Marcus saw that he believed all that the letter had

insinuated.

By this time, Marcus had got his constitutional devil a little under

control. There was something of real boldness and honesty in his eyes,

as he answered:

"This is a distressing subject to talk or think of. But now that it has

been brought before us, I demand a full investigation. Go, wherever you

will, among those who know me, and inquire into my character. Recall

everything that has occurred between us since the beginning of our

acquaintance. Ask your daughter if I have ever spoken a word to her, or

cast a look at her, which could justify these infamous insinuations.

Thus much I ask of you, in justice to me."

"And I refuse, sir," said the inventor. "I will not insult you by an

unworthy suspicion. The world is full of impertinent people, and we can

no more stop their gabble, than that of swallows in the air. This

nameless fellow signs himself 'One of Many,' That is probably a lie. But

if there were thousands like himself prying into your and my affairs, I

should not care. As for motives, none but fools and misanthropes trouble

themselves about _them_."

The inventor tossed off the last sentence contemptuously. But Marcus

knew that he did attach a great importance to motives; although he could

not fairly be ranked either among the misanthropes or the fools. He

therefore replied:

"The whole world is welcome to inquire into my motives. As I understand

them, they are: First, I take pleasure in your society, sir, because,

like myself, you are a quiet, thinking man. Second, you have a

hobby--your machine, there--and I admire people with hobbies. Third, I

am fond of children, and--and--your daughter is a very pleasant,

intelligent child. Fourth, you have insisted on selling me an interest

in your invention, in return for a small loan, and that fact would draw

me here, if nothing else did. These are motives enough to satisfy the

most inquisitive mind, I should think."

Marcus said this with an attempt at a light laugh. But there was one

motive not yet confessed--a motive which could hardly be called a

motive, for it lay dim and half-formed within his brain. He had never,

in his moments of self-inquisition, acknowledged its existence to

himself. How could he, then, venture to disclose it to another? It was

the suppression of this immature motive, that brought back that look of

deceit and guilt to Marcus Wilkeson's ingenuous face.

This unfortunate physiognomical revelation was not lost upon the keen

eyes of the inventor. But he said:

"Mr. Wilkeson, let us not say another word on this ridiculous subject. I

am ashamed of myself for showing you the letter. I ought to have thrown

it into the fire."

"There I differ with you, my dear sir," said Marcus. "You did perfectly

right, and I am glad that I have had the opportunity to define my

position here clearly, once and for all." Marcus could not avoid saying

this much in mere civility to the inventor, but he indulged the private

opinion that that gentleman should have burned the anonymous note.

"Who can have written this scoundrelly thing?" continued Marcus,

turning over the letter, and then the envelope, for the twentieth time

each, and minutely examining them.

The note was written on a half sheet of common letter paper. The

manufacturer's stamp in the corner had been cut off, and the size of the

half sheet further diminished by paring down one of the sides. The

writing was what is known as "backhanded," in strokes which appeared at

first sight to be of a uniform lightness. On inspecting it very closely,

Marcus discovered a tendency, in this backhanded penmanship, to ascend

from the line; and also that, in a few instances, the downward strokes

on certain long letters were a trifle thicker than on others. That the

writing was a man's, Marcus had no doubt, though he would have been

puzzled to give the reasons which led him to that conclusion. The

envelope was the ordinary prepaid-stamped one issued by the Government,

and therefore could not contribute to the identification of the

anonymous writer. The superscription was in the same backhand, and was

peculiar in nothing but a small curved nourish, like Hogarth's line of

beauty, beneath the words, "New York. City."

"The rascal has carefully disguised his hand," said Marcus, "and does

not mean to be found out. I can say nothing more positive, than that it

is written by somebody who has never corresponded with me. My memory of

autographs happens to be pretty tenacious."

"And I am positive that it is written by no acquaintance of mine, or of

my daughter's, for we have none--except you. As the case now stands, it

is a mystery, not worth the exploring."

"Again I differ with you," said Marcus. "Whoever wrote this false

letter, has powerful motives of hostility to me or you, or,

perhaps--worse still--to your daughter. I must try to smoke him out of

his hiding place. Meanwhile, I trust, sir, you will see the propriety of

concealing this unpleasant matter from Miss Minford."

"Certainly, Mr. Wilkeson, certainly. As for myself, it is forever

dismissed from my mind; and I cannot blame myself sufficiently for

having troubled you with it." Mr. Minford here proffered his hand, which

Marcus cordially shook, rejoicing to observe no trace of suspicion in

the inventor's clear gray eyes.

"Allow me to retain this letter for the present," asked Marcus. "It may

serve as a clue to the detection of the concealed scoundrel. I also beg

that you will show me any other anonymous letters of the same character

that may reach you."

Mr. Minford laughed. "The stove door is the pigeonhole where all such

nonsense ought to be filed away. But just as you please. If any more

come to hand, you shall see them. They may amuse you, as they do me.

Ha! ha!"

Marcus echoed the laugh, but feebly. Then it occurred to him that Pet

would soon be home, and he felt a strange aversion to meeting her, after

what had happened. He therefore pleaded a pressing engagement at eleven

o'clock (which it then was), and took his departure from the inventor's

roof, but not without a warm and seemingly sincere invitation to

"call soon."

CHAPTER II.

CONSOLATIONS OF HIGH ART.

Marcus walked slowly toward Broadway, musing and unhappy. To a man of

his delicate and hyper-sensitive nature, an event of this kind was a

vast disturbance. He felt that this anonymous letter was but the

forerunner of a long series of troubles. That prescience which nervous

people have of misfortunes portrayed to him a future black with

disappointments and dangers.

"Hallo, Mark! What's the matter? You look as sad as a low comedian by

daylight!" Previous to this salutation came a ringing slap on the

left shoulder.

Marcus rather liked familiarities; but the slap, coming on him when his

nerves were unstrung, startled him. He turned sharply; but the stern

and indignant face wreathed into amiable smiles, when he saw that the

lively gentleman behind him was only Wesley Tiffles. Everybody liked

Wesley Tiffles; even those who bore the burden of his unlucky financial

schemes uniting in cheerful testimony to his charming, companionable

qualities. His presence was like a ray of sunlight to Marcus Wilkeson's

beclouded mind; and when Wesley Tiffles hooked an arm in his (as he did

to everybody on the second day of their acquaintance), Marcus felt his

perplexities passing away from him, like electricity on a

conducting rod.

Wesley Tiffles and his single diamond (the latter from the background of

a third day's shirt) shone on him together; and Marcus laughed

merrily in reply:

"I don't look sad now," said he. "I'm glad to see you, Tiffles. What are

you driving at _now_, eh?"

This question was continually poked at Tiffles. He changed his business

so often.

"At the panorama of Africa, to be sure," said Tiffles. "It is a great

idea, and I am constant to it, although several capital schemes have

occurred to me since I first thought of it. But Africa deserves, and

shall have the precedence."

"Oh! yes--I remember. And how far have you got along with this great

work?"

"It's almost finished, thank you. Patching is the artist. You know

Patching, of course--one of the most promising painters of the modern

school. There were several Patchings very much praised by the Sunday

papers, at the last National Academy Exhibition, though the hanging

committee put them either among the dirt or the cobwebs. This conspiracy

against Patching is far-reaching. It would seem as if his rivals of the

Academy actually went about town calling upon people, and cautioning

them _not_ to buy Patchings. Indeed, to such an extent has this

outrageous attempt to put down a fellow artist been carried, that I know

of but one Patching to be publicly seen in the city. It is an attic

interior--a sweet thing, quite equal to Frère, and hangs behind a bar

near Spring street. Perhaps you would like to examine it?"

"Hem! Not to-day. Some other time," answered Marcus, who, strangely

enough, interpreted the question as an invitation to drink at his

(Marcus's) expense.

"I did not mean to-day," said Wesley Tiffles. "Any time will do. Well, I

have engaged this brilliant but neglected creature to paint my panorama.

At first he refused--as I expected. He said that it would hurt his

reputation. I argued to him, that, the larger the picture, the more the

reputation; and said that I would put his name on the bills in type

second only to my own. But he could not bring himself to see the matter

as I did, and consented to paint it only on condition of profound

secrecy. Price, one hundred dollars. You will therefore understand

(Tiffles lowered his voice) that what I am saying to you is strictly

confidential--as, indeed, all is that I say about my panorama. Secrecy

alone gives value to these grand, original ideas."

Wesley Tiffles was always unbosoming himself to the world, and informing

each individual hearer that his disclosure was strictly confidential.

"I give you my word," said Marcus. He wondered where Tiffles raised the

money to pay the artist, but did not like to ask him.

"Now I have caught you, you must come and see how we get along. The work

is going on at my room in the Bartholomew Buildings, only a few steps

from here." (According to Tiffles, the Bartholomew Buildings were only a

few steps from anywhere, when he wanted to take anybody to them.)

"Patching will object to bringing in a stranger; but I can pass you off

as a capitalist, who thinks of taking an interest in the panorama. Good

joke, that!"

Marcus drew back a little at the joke; but Wesley Tiffles had proved so

great a relief to his low spirits, that he determined to keep on taking

him, and expressed his ardent desire to see the panorama.

The couple, arm in arm, sauntered into Broadway, and down that

thoroughfare. Tiffles nodded to a great many acquaintances, and Wilkeson

to a very few. People whom Tiffles did not know personally, he had short

biographies of, and he entertained Marcus with an incessant string of

anecdotes and memoranda of passers by. The walk was leisurely and

uninterrupted, with two exceptions, when Wesley Tiffles broke suddenly

from his companion, rushed into the entry of a photographic

establishment, and examined numerous square feet of show portraits with

profound interest. Marcus explained these impulsive movements on the

supposition that Tiffles sought to escape from approaching duns. He

noticed that that individual, while observing people who streamed by him

on either side, kept one eye, as it were, about a block and a half

ahead. In some parts of the world, Marcus might have objected to walking

publicly with a man of such an eccentric demeanor. But he was well aware

that, in New York, a citizen's reputation is not in the least degree

affected by the company that he keeps.

They soon arrived at the Bartholomew Buildings--a rickety five-story

edifice, which had been altered from a hotel to a nest of private

offices. The basement was a restaurant, the first floor a dry goods

store, and thence to the roof there was a small Babel of trades and

professions known and unknown. No census taker had ever booked all the

businesses and all the names under that comprehensive roof.

In the upper story of this building, at the end of a long, hall, the

floor of which was hollowed in places by the feet of half a century, was

the room, or office, as he called it, of Mr. Wesley Tiffles. There was

no number, or sign, on the door, but only a card bearing the

inscription, in a bold hand, "Back in five minutes." Mr. Tiffles always

put out this standing announcement whenever he had occasion to absent

himself from his office for an indefinite period. At the top of the door

there was a swinging window, which was ever close fastened, and covered

with four thicknesses of newspapers. Though door and window were shut,

there came from this room, as if through pores of the wood and the

glass, a strong odor of tobacco smoke. A voice within could be heard

softly humming an operatic air.

Wesley Tiffles opened the door with a latch key, saying, "All right!" in

a loud voice, as he did so. Marcus entered with him into a blue cloud of

smoke heated to a sickly degree by a small coal stove with a prodigious

quantity of pipe. Even Marcus's hardened lungs found it difficult

to breathe.

The room was about twenty feet square. It had been a part of the laundry

when the building was a hotel. The walls, from the floor to the low

ceiling, appeared to be hung with a strange, dim tapestry. A second

glance convinced Marcus Wilkeson that this seeming tapestry was the

panorama, which was fastened on stretchers along three sides of the

room, and rolled up in a corner as fast as completed. At the farther end

of the room, barely visible through the smoke, was the figure of a man

in a torn and dirty dressing gown, and an enormous black felt hat with a

huge turn-up brim, of the kind supposed to be worn by the bandits of the

Pyrenees. The back of the man was turned to Marcus Wilkeson, and he was

making rapid dabs on the canvas with a long brush, frequently dipping

into one of a series of pails or pans which stood on the floor by his

side. He was smoking and humming the operatic air at the same time; and

he pulled his great slouched hat farther over his eyes, as a signal for

impertinent curiosity to keep its distance.

Wesley Tiffles whispered something about the eccentricities of genius,

and then said:

"Mr. Patching. Allow me. Mr. Wilkeson. A capitalist, who thinks of

taking a small interest in the panorama. Confidential, of course."

The artist turned round during these remarks, and presented the original

of a portrait which Marcus remembered to have seen--dressing gown, hat,

and all--in a small print-shop window in the Sixth Avenue. Touching the

face he might have had doubt, but there was no mistaking the pattern of

the dressing gown and the amazing hat. He also had a faint recollection

of the thin face, the Vandyke beard, and the long, tangled hair at Mrs.

Slapman's, on New Year's, but was not positive as to their identity. Mr.

Patching's individuality lay chiefly in his hat.

The artist placed a moist hand, with one long finger nail like a claw,

at the disposal of Marcus Wilkeson. The latter gentleman shook the

member feebly, and distinctly felt the sharp edge of the long finger

nail in his palm. It was an unpleasant sensation.

"Happy to meet a _confidential_ friend of Tiffles's," said Patching.

"Painting panoramas is not exactly what I have been used to. An artist's

reputation is his capital in trade, you know." He spoke slowly and

languidly, as if hope and happiness were quite dead within him, and he

had consented to live on only for the good of high Art.

"I understand," said Marcus. "The secret shall be inviolate."

"Nothing but my old friendship for Tiffles here could possibly have

induced me to undertake the job. My enemies--and I have them, ha! ha!"

(he said this bitterly)--"would like nothing better to say of Patching,

than that he had got down to the panorama line of business. It would be

a pretty piece of scandal."

"My lips are sealed, sir. But it strikes me, as a casual observer, that

there is nothing to be ashamed of in this beautiful work of art." Marcus

Wilkeson had the amiable vice of flattery.

Patching shrugged his shoulders, and made a contemptuous gesture toward

the canvas with his outstretched brush. "A mere daub," said he. "One

step higher than painting a barn or a board fence--that's all."

"Yet the true artist adorns what he touches," said Marcus.

Patching accepted the homage calmly, as one who knew that he deserved

it. "A very just and discriminating remark, sir. I have no doubt that a

person thoroughly familiar with my style would say, looking at this

panorama, 'It has the severe simplicity of a Patching.' I consented to

paint it, as Tiffles well remembers, only on condition that I should not

wholly abase myself by abandoning the style upon which I have built up

my reputation."

Tiffles, thus appealed to, corroborated the statement with a solemn bow.

The artist continued: "Fortunately, the subject is one peculiarly

adapted to my genius. For instance: the desert of Sahara is a dead level

of sand. It is a perfect type of severe simplicity in the highest sense.

It exhibits no common display of gorgeous colors, such as poor artists

and the ignorant crowd rejoice in. As far as the eye can see, there is a

serene stretch of yellow sand, without even a blade of grass to break

its awful immensity." (The artist, being on his favorite theme, took his

pipe out of his mouth for the first time, and spoke with warmth.) "Look

at that bit of desert, now. Does it not convey a perfect idea of

solitude and desolation?"

Marcus Wilkeson glanced at about ten feet of straight yellow paint

(which was all of the desert of Sahara not rolled up in the canvas), and

said that it did--which was perfectly true.

"There are one hundred feet more, which you don't see, just like it.

Another artist would have put in an oasis, or a stray hyena, or the

bleached bones of an unfortunate traveller. _I_ did not. Why? Another

would have worked up a sunset, or a moonrise, or a thunder storm, to

give variety to the sky. _I_ did not. Why? The sky over my desert is an

uninterrupted blue. There is not even a bird in it. There is nothing, in

short, either on the ground or in the air, to take away the mind of the

spectator, for one moment, from the sublime idea of a desert--an object

which, considered aesthetically, is one of the grandest in the universe.

This is severe simplicity. It is the highest school of Art."

"And the cheapest," observed Tiffles; "which is an important

consideration when you have an acre or two of canvas to paint. It would

cost a deal more to put in the sun and moon, travelling caravans, and

other objects of interest, here and there."

"Incidentally it may be the cheapest," said Patching. "But that is a

question for capitalists, and not for artists to determine. True Art

never thinks of the expense."

"It always seemed to me to be the easiest school of Art," said Marcus

Wilkeson. "I suppose, now, that you can dash off twenty or thirty rods

of this a day."

Patching smiled with a lofty pity. "So I can. Not because it is the

easiest, though--far from it; but because I happen to have a genius for

quick and sure touches. You, not being a professional artist, think the

execution of that scrap of desert and sky an easy matter. Perhaps you

fancy that you could do it." There was the least infusion of satire in

the artist's tone.

"Oh, no!" replied Marcus Wilkeson, who ever shrank from wounding the

self-love of a fellow creature. "I am not rash enough to suppose that I

could do it. I merely observed that it seemed--to my inexperienced

eyes--an easy matter. A few strokes of yellow paint here, for sand, and

a few strokes of blue paint there, for sky. But I am not even an

amateur, and so my opinion goes for nothing."

"I admire your frankness," said Patching. "Now let me convince you

practically. Be good enough to stand near this window with me."

Marcus moved to the spot indicated by the artist.

"Here," said Patching, "you are at about the same distance from the

desert as the front row of spectators will be. Now look at it

critically."

Marcus shaded his eyes with his left hand, cocked his head over his

right shoulder, in the true critical style, and gazed on the scene.

"Do you see the harmony--the TONE, I may say--in the desert?" asked

Patching, after a short pause.

"I think I do," responded Marcus, willing to oblige the artist.

"And the spiritual, or INNER meaning of the sky?"

"Ye-yes. It is quite perceptible."

"These are the effects of severe simplicity. But you must understand

that a single mis-stroke of the brush would have spoiled all the harmony

in the desert, or reduced the sky to a mere inexpressive field of blue

vapor. Why? Genius alone can achieve such grand results by such

apparently simple means. You comprehend?"

"Perfectly," said Marcus Wilkeson.

"Then I shall take a real pleasure in showing you more of the panorama

which is already completed and rolled up. With this idea of severe

simplicity in your mind, you will be prepared to appreciate the work,"

"I believe I have already remarked, that Mr. Wilkeson is a capitalist,

and comes here expressly to look at the panorama," said Tiffles; with a

wink at the artist.

"With every respect for him as a capitalist," returned Patching, "I see

in him only the ingenuous student of Art, whom it is a happiness

to teach."

The first instalment was a continuation of the desert with which Marcus

had been already regaled. Patching begged him to observe the unfaltering

harmony of the sand, and the protracted spirituality of the sky. Then

came a jungle.

"You will note the severe simplicity here," observed Patching, "No

meretricious effects. Nothing but strokes of green paint, up and down,

representing the density of an African jungle. Yet how admirably these

seemingly careless strokes, laid on by the hand of genius, convey the

idea of DEPTH! You do not fail to notice the DEPTH, I presume?"

"I see it," said Marcus.

"_That_ is severe simplicity," replied the artist.

At this point, Marcus noticed a brown something bearing a strong

resemblance to the swamp stalk, known among boys as the cattail. "Excuse

my ignorance of African plants," said he; "but what is that?"

The artist smiled. "Another happy illustration of my theory," said he.

"It is the tail of a lion bounding through his native jungles. Why? The

effect of suggesting the lion, so to speak, is much more thrilling than

that of painting him at full length. Genius accomplishes by hints what

mere talent fails to achieve by the utmost elaboration. You will not

deny that that vague revelation of the lion's tail inspires a feeling of

mystery and terror, which would not be caused by a full-length portrait

of that king of beasts?"

Marcus Wilkeson did not deny it, but said that perhaps everybody could

not identify the object as a lion's tail.

"That has all been thought of," said Tiffles. "I shall explain the

panorama, you must understand. When I come to the lion's tail, I shall

tell the audience what it is, and go on to give a full account of the

lion, and his ferocious habits. This will gratify the women and small

boys quite as much as seeing the lion _in propria persona_."

"Precisely. Very good," was the laughing acknowledgment. "And what is

that thing, twisted like a piece of grapevine above the tall grass at

this point?"

"The trunk of an elephant. Look a little farther on, as the canvas

unrolls, and you will observe the white tusk of a rhinoceros protruding

from the jungle with wonderful effect. Why? The two animals are

advancing toward each other for mortal combat."

"I shall describe their terrific struggles," interrupted Tiffles. "Have

read up Buffon for it."

"More lions' and elephants' tails, you observe," continued the artist;

"also more rhinoceroses' tusks. It is well to have enough of them, to

illustrate the teeming life of the African jungle. Also the head of a

boa constrictor. Likewise the tail of one. Here we come to a change of

scene. Mark how wonderfully a few strokes of dark-green paint, put on by

the hand of genius, impart the idea of a pestiferous swamp. That

odd-looking object, like a rock, is the head of a hippopotamus. A few

feet beyond, you notice two things like the stumps of aquatic weeds.

Those are the tails of two hippopotamuses engaged in deadly strife at

the bottom of the swamp. The heads of crocodiles are thrust up here and

there. Severe simplicity again."

The panorama, from thence nearly to the end of it--or rather the

beginning--was a repetition of jungles and deserts, varied by an

occasional swamp, all diversified with the heads and tails of indigenous

animals. The last hundred feet was the river Gambier, over which

Patching had introduced a sunrise of the most gorgeous description, at

the earnest request of Wesley Tiffles.

Patching explained: "In my opinion, such effects are tawdry, and detract

not only from the severe simplicity, but from the UNITY which should

pervade a painting of this description. Of course, I wash my hands of

all these innovations upon the province of high Art."

"And I cheerfully shoulder them," said Tiffles. "I know what the public

want. They want any quantity of sunsets, crocodiles, lions, and other

objects of interest. If we had time and money to spare, and I could

overcome Patching's scruples--do you understand?--I would put 'em in

twice as thick. Men of genius, like Patching, cannot be expected to be

practical."

The artist shrugged his shoulders, and smiled.

Tiffles then repeated his invitation to Marcus to accompany him on his

first expedition into the interior of New Jersey; but Marcus positively

declined. Tiffles said he would send him a note a day or two before the

panorama started, and hoped that Marcus would conclude to go, just for

the fun of the thing.

Marcus then shook hands with Patching--who made his long finger nail

amicably felt--and with Tiffles, and withdrew to the entry, followed by

the latter individual.

Tiffles closed the door. "By the way," said he, as if the thought

occurred to him then for the first time, "can you spare thirty-five

dollars to-day? Pay you on the--let me see--on the first of next month.

By that time the panorama will be fairly under headway, and coining

money." (Tiffles always fixed his days of payment with great

particularity.)

Marcus, without saying a word, produced his pocket book, and counted out

thirty-five dollars. Tiffles had already borrowed from Overtop and

Maltboy, but had generously spared the oldest of the three bachelors.

Marcus felt that his time had come, and he would not meanly avoid his

destiny. He placed the money in Tiffles's hand.

"Give you my note?" asked Tiffles.

"Oh, no!" said Marcus; "make it a matter of honor."

Tiffles pocketed the funds, placed his hand over his heart, and replied

that it should be. "But, now I think of it," he suddenly added, "I want

exactly sixty-three dollars--do you understand?--to see me through with

this panorama. Suppose you make it twenty-eight dollars more."

Marcus smiled, and said that he didn't understand; whereat Tiffles

laughed outright, to show that he took no offence at the refusal; and

creditor and debtor parted with mutual good wishes.

CHAPTER III.

LOVING AFAR OFF.

The boy Bog had now become, professionally, a creature of the night. He

was abroad at the, same hours as the burglars and garroters, and other

owls and weasels of society. Fink & Co. (Bog was the Co.) had secured

the bill posting for three theatres and one negro-minstrel hall. This

they called their heavy business. Carrying the huge damp placards, had

already given to Bog's shoulders a manifest tendency to roundness, which

he was constantly trying to overcome by straightening up. Fink, who was

the veteran bill poster of the town, was as round shouldered as a hod

carrier. But Bog thought of somebody, and stood as nearly erect as

he could.

The firm also obtained rather more than their share of ordinary bill

posting, from doctors, drygoods dealers, and other people who find their

profit in continually addressing the public from the summit of a dead

wall, or the muddy level of the curbstones. This they called their light

business. As it required neither strength nor practised dexterity of

manipulation, the firm intrusted it to assistants.

There were a dozen of these, all stout, hulking young fellows nearly as

old as Bog. They took a fancy to bill posting, and worked industriously

and faithfully at it, because it was nocturnal, mysterious, romantic.

The half dollar which they each received for a night's labor, enabled

them to lounge about the streets all day in glorious indolence.

Sometimes there was a prodigious rush of business, and then the firm

were obliged to hire an extra force of boys.

Once, when a quack undertook to take the public by storm with his "New

and Sure Cure for Dyspepsia," Fink & Co. put a colored poster as large

as a dining table on every wall and high fence below Sixty-first street;

small oblong bills every ten feet along the curbstones of Broadway,

Bowery, Wall street, Fulton street, Cortlandt street, and Third, Fourth,

Fifth, Sixth, Eighth, Madison, and Lexington Avenues; besides throwing

cheap circulars, folded, into the front yards of about four thousand

residences in the fashionable quarters of the town--all in a single

night. This immense job took one hundred boys.

Bog had been in this partnership since the first of January. It was now

near the close of March. The firm had been very successful. Bog had

comfortably supported himself and his aunt (whose rheumatism got worse

in steady proportion as his business improved), and had invested more

than two hundred and fifty dollars in a Wall-street savings bank.