CHAPTER I.

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TRIFLES

FOR THE

CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.

BY

H.S. ARMSTRONG.

PHILADELPHIA:

J.B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.

1869.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by

HENRY S. ARMSTRONG,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the

District of Louisiana.

TO

JAS. DAVIDSON HILL,

OF NEW ORLEANS,

A CHOSEN SCHOOL-FELLOW, A STANCH COMRADE IN ARMS, AND THE TRUE FRIEND OF

LATER YEARS,

THESE

"Trifles"

ARE AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.

CONTENTS.

THE OVERTURE 9

A CHRISTMAS MELODY 15

STORY OF A BEAST 29

LEAVES IN THE LIFE OF AN IDLER 45

MR. BUTTERBY RECORDS HIS CASE 71

DIAMONDS AND HEARTS 98

TRIFLES

FOR

THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.

THE OVERTURE.

Christmas! What worldly care could ever lessen the joy of that eventful

day? At your first waking in the morning, when you lie gazing in drowsy

listlessness at the brass ornament on your bed-tester, when the ring of

the milkman is like a dream, and the cries of the bread-man and

newspaper-boy sound far off in the distance, it peals at you in the

laughter and gay greetings of the servants in the yard. Your senses are

aroused by a promiscuous discharging of pistols, and you are filled with

a vague thought that the whole city has been formed into a line of

skirmishers. You are startled by a noise on the front pavement, which

sounds like an energetic drummer beating the long roll on a barrel-head;

and you have an indistinct idea that some improvident urchin (up since

the dawn) has just expended his last fire-cracker.

At length there is a stir in the room near you. You hear the patter of

little feet on the stairs, and the sound of childish voices in the

drawing-room. What transports of admiration, what peals of joyous

clamor, fall on your sleepy ears! The patter on the stairs sounds louder

and louder, the ringing voices come nearer and nearer; you hear the

little hands on your door-knob, and you hurry on your dressing-gown; for

it is Christmas morning.

What a wonderful time you have at breakfast! There are a half-dozen

silver forks for ma, a new napkin-ring for you, and what astonishing

hay-wagons and crying dolls for the children! Jane, the house-maid, is

beaming with happiness in a new collar and black silk apron; and Bridget

will persist in wearing her silver thimble and carrying her new

work-basket, though they threaten utter destruction to the

beefsteak-plate.

You sit an unusually long time over your coffee that morning, and say an

unusual number of facetious things to everybody. You cover Jane with

confusion, and throw Bridget into an explosion of mirth, by slyly

alluding to a blue-eyed young dray-man you one evening noticed seated on

the kitchen steps. Perhaps you venture a prediction on the miserable

existence he is some day destined to experience,--when a look from the

little lady in the merino morning-wrapper checks you, and you confess to

yourself that you are feeling uncommonly happy.

At last the breakfast ends, and the children go out for a romp. Perhaps

you are a little taken aback when you are informed your easy-chair has

been removed to the library; but you see Bridget, still in secure

possession of her thimble and work-basket, with a huge china bowl in one

hand and an egg-beater in the other, looking very warm and very much

confused, and you take your departure to your own domain, to con over

the morning papers.

You hear an indistinct sound of the drawing of corks and beating of

eggs; of a great many dishes being taken out of the china-closet, and a

good many orders being given in an undertone,--why is it women always

will speak in a whisper when there is a man about the house?--and you

lose yourself in the "leader," or the prices current.

The skirmishers have evidently suffered disaster; for the firing becomes

more and more distant, and at length dies from your hearing. You are

favored with a call from the improvident little boy, who requests you to

grant him the privilege of collecting such of his unexploded

fire-crackers as may be in your front yard, giving you, at the same

time, the interesting information that they are to be made into

"spit-devils." You are overwhelmed by a profound bow from the grocer's

lad as he passes your window, and you invite him in and beg that he will

honor you by accepting half a dollar and a handful of doughnuts:--the

lady in the merino morning-wrapper has provided a cake-basket full for

the occasion. You are also waited on by the milkman, who, you are glad

to see, is really flesh and blood, and not, as you have sometimes

supposed, an unearthly bell-ringer who visited this sublunary sphere

only at five A.M., and then for the sole purpose of disturbing

your morning nap. You are also complimented by the wood-man and

wood-sawyer, an English sailor with a wooden leg, who once nearly

swamped you in a tornado of nautical interjections, on your presenting

him a new pea-jacket. And then comes the German fruit-woman, whose first

customer you have the distinguished honor to be, and who, in

consequence, has taken breakfast in your kitchen for the last ten years.

You remember that on one occasion she spoke of her little boy, named

Heinderich, who was suffering with his teeth; and when you hope that

Heinderich is better, you are surprised to learn that he is quite a

large boy, going to the public school, and that the lady in the merino

morning-wrapper has just sent him a new cap.

The heaping pile of doughnuts gradually lessens, until finally there is

not one left. The last dish is evidently taken from the china-closet,

and the whole house is filled with that portentous stillness which

causes the mothers of mischievous offspring so much trepidation.

You expect to see the merino morning-wrapper reconnoitering the

movements of your own sweet pledges of affection; but she doesn't: you

can only hear the ticking of the little French clock on the

mantle-piece, and the spluttering of the coal as it bursts into a gassy

flame between the bars of the grate, and you almost imagine Christmas

has passed. You are deceived; for by-and-by you hear your children's

footsteps as they skip over the garden-walk, and the sound of their

ringing laughter as they rush in out of the cold, and their clamor rises

louder and gladder and more jubilant than ever. Grandpa! Who does not

know him, with his joyous face and hearty morning greeting? How

resplendent he looks in his broadcloth suit, his gold-headed cane and

great blue overcoat! What quantities of almonds and raisins, of oranges

and sweetmeats, those overcoat-pockets contain! What child ever lived

who did not believe grandpa's pocket a cornucopia for all juvenile

desires? The day passes on. The turkey never looked browner or juicier,

and the blaze on the pudding-sauce never burned bluer; the kissing under

the mistletoe was never more delightful, nor the blindman's-buff ever

played with a greater zest: but the merriest Christmas must end. Your

little girl, tired and sleepy, kneels at your feet, and you pass your

fingers through her soft curls, while she repeats her simple prayer:

"God bless pa, God bless ma, God bless grandpa, God bless little

brother, and God bless Santa Claus;" and you hope that God _will_ bless

Santa Claus. You thank your Creator you _are_ the master of that quiet

home and the father of those dear children, and go to your rest with a

heart full of gratitude. You hope that all the newspaper-boys, and all

the milkmen and bread-men's children, and all the little boys and girls

who have no fathers or mothers or grandpas, and all the poor, and all

the sick, and all the blind, and all the distressed, have had a merry

Christmas.

At a time like this, when the security of your own reward relaxes

scrutiny for the shortcomings of others, I would have you take up these

"_Trifles_."

A CHRISTMAS MELODY.

The Prelude.

"Twenty-nine dollars! Very well, Mr. John Redfield: I think you _have_

cut your allowance a _little_ low. With bracelets, bonbons, and other

gewgaws for your interesting friends, I must say your enjoyment of this

prospective Twenty-fifth of December is somewhat reduced. When a man has

skated over the frozen surface of society a little matter of

one-and-thirty years, it is just reasonable to hope he has reached that

desideratum known as years of discretion. There is a little adage

relating to the immeasurably short time the feeble-minded enjoy

pecuniary advantages, which I think decidedly applicable to you.

"A rather severe epigram, occurring in the Holy Scriptures, goes to show

the impossibility--even though the somewhat unsatisfactory argument of

the pestle and mortar be resorted to--of separating the same class of

people from their rather confused ideas of the fitness of things.

However, when the Mussulman, careering over Sahara, finds himself, by a

stumble of his horse, rolling in the sand, with his yataghan, pistols,

and turban scattered around him, he rises quietly, and exclaims, 'Allah

is great!' I know a Christian would have expended his wrath in a variety

of anathemas highly edifying, and close by wishing his unfortunate steed

in a much warmer climate than the Mohammedan has any idea of. I am a

poor church-man: let me emulate the philosophy of the simple child of

the desert, and when I fall into trouble bear it patiently.

"I wonder what the grim savage would do were he short of money in a land

thronging with beggars and other blissful adjuncts of civilization? Woe

unto every blind or club-foot man, and every one-armed or scalded woman,

_I_ meet to-day! They shall work out their own salvation with fear and

trembling, or I'm an idiot.

"Why, bless my soul, the fortunes bequeathed to all the novel-heroes

created this century, would not begin to supply them!"

Redfield shook his head decidedly when he came to this part of his

monologue, and put the gold and silver coins back into his pocket.

"I hate poor people--I positively do! I despise their pale faces and

cadaverous expression. I detest straggling little girls who come up to

you and say their mothers have been bedridden for three months, and all

their little brothers and sisters are down with the fever. I know it's

a lie. I can detect at once the professional whine, and am certain the

story has been repeated by rote a hundred times that day; but for the

life of me I cannot put out from my mind the imaginary picture of the

half-furnished room in some filthy back street, with a forlorn woman

with red hair stretched on a bed of straw, and half a dozen or more

red-haired children piled about promiscuously.

"There is a wretched little German girl, always managing to have a boil

either on her forehead or the back of her neck,--I believe in my soul

it's from overfeeding,--who follows my footsteps like a misanthropic

vampire. By what ingenuity she manages to cajole me out of my money I

know not, but I positively assert that in the last fortnight, according

to her account, her unhappy mother has suffered from eleven different

incurable diseases. My God! what a complication of misfortune! Why not

let them starve? When a man is not capable of maintaining a family, why

in Heaven's name does he ever have one?

"I think I will follow the maxims of political economists and all

respectable members of society, and vote beggars a nuisance. I wonder

how many people to-day, praying for deliverance by Christ's 'agony and

bloody sweat,' by his 'cross and passion,' his 'precious death and

burial,' his 'glorious resurrection and ascension,' and the 'coming of

the Holy Ghost,' don't?

"This _is_ a charitable frame of mind to precede a Christmas morning.

When did I contract the habit of talking to myself?

"I must be impressed with the two grand reasons of the man we all know

of: first, I like to talk to a sensible man, and second, I like to hear

a sensible man talk.

"I wonder if there is not something under the surface in Sol Smith's

charity sermon? I rather like its pithy style:

"'He that giveth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord. Now, brethren, if you

are satisfied with the security, down with the dust.'

"I once repeated it to a gaunt little parson, and his look of

unmitigated horror caused me to hide my diminished head. I knew from his

manner--he did not condescend a reply--what chamber in the Inferno was

being heated up for my especial benefit. Well, well! the sentiment is

doubtless creditable to his head and heart.

"What a pity it is I am not one of the 'good' people! What an

agonizingly cerulean expression I would wear, to be sure!

"I wonder why young mothers don't write for their children's first copy

Dante's inscription, and teach their baby lips to lisp of the world what

he says of hell. It's surprising to me that that parson is not crazed at

his sense of the certain perdition into which everybody except himself

is hurrying. Perhaps, after all, there is something in the question of

La Rochefoucauld, 'Is it not astonishing that we are not altogether

overpowered at the misfortunes of our friends?' Well, man learns

something every day. When I first saw a chicken take a billful of water

and hold up its head, in my childish simplicity I imagined it thanking

God: I afterward discovered it was only letting the water run down its

throat. My mind, like good wine or bad butter, must be strengthening by

age.

"Why can't we take things quietly, as we did when we were boys? I expect

I had a rather comfortable time of it then, though I did get whipped for

tearing my clothes, and killing flies, which I used to do worse than any

bald hornet.

"Now, that youngster walking before me is whistling like a lark, and, by

the Lord Harry, he has scarcely a shoe to his foot!"

He was a poor boy, perhaps seven or eight years old. His face was pale

and careworn, and though he whistled, it was a solemn kind of whistle,

that sounded more like a lamentation than the outburst of childish

gladness. His clothes were too thin and worn for his slight frame, for

the morning, though clear and bright, was frosty, and his little bare

toes peeping out of his shoes were blue with the cold. He hurried

through the streets with a bundle of papers, but, even while intent on

their sale, he had the walk of an old man, and his small shoulders

stooped as though they bent under the weight of years.

Redfield eyed him narrowly.

"Paper, sir?"

"So, in this frenzied struggle after bread, you are an itinerant vendor

of periodical literature?"

"You mean I sell papers, sir? Yes. I've only been at it three weeks. I'm

'stuck' this morning. Haven't got a good beat yet. Paper, sir?"

"Have you no fears of risking your commercial character by appearing on

the streets in that unheard-of dress?"

The boy reddened.

"I've been sick," said he, at length, "for a very long time."

"My Lord!" groaned the philosopher; "here's another conspiracy against

my unfortunate pocket-book! Why don't your mother take care of you?"

"She did, sir; but she sews for slop-shops, and has worked so much at

night that she's almost blind."

"Worse and worse! and here's an outfitting establishment just across the

street. When will I acquire anything like habits of prudence? Boy," said

he, fiercely, "you are a young vagabond, and deserve to starve. Your

mother should be put in the pillory for ever marrying. That's what the

world says,--and what I would think, if I wasn't a consummate ass. Were

you ever blessed with a view of the most unmitigated simpleton the sun

ever shone upon? Look at me! Look good: I am worthy of a close

inspection. Now come along, and see to what extent my folly sometimes

carries me."

He caught the boy roughly by the arm, jerked rather than led him across

the street, and thrust him bodily among a crowd of astonished clerks who

stood at the door of a clothing-house.

"Take this young vagrant and put him into new boots, with woolen socks,

some kind of a gray jacket and trowsers, and a hat that's fit for a

civilized age."

Seeing that Redfield was really in earnest, the proprietor obeyed the

order promptly, and in half an hour the boy reappeared, rather red, a

little uncertain, but decidedly altered for the better.

"Now go," cried the cynic, with a smile, and a shake of his hand, "and

thank your stars the fool-killer did not come along before you."

"Nineteen dollars and a half! Bless me! what am I coming to? It may be

laying up treasures in heaven; but, by Jove, I had rather see it than

hear tell of it."

The Refrain.

It certainly was the dreariest 24th of December an unhappy boy ever had

the misery of witnessing. In a vain endeavor to get up an excitement, I

expended my last fire-cracker; but the continuous drizzle drowned out

every one. It was only four o'clock, and yet the fog hung like a pall

over the windows, and the gas-men were lighting the lamps in the street.

My mother, and an old schoolmate, Mrs. Mary Morton, adjourned to the

privacy of her bedroom; and, a pet navigation enterprise, conducted in

the gutter, having resulted in shipwreck and a severe sore throat, I

also was permitted to enjoy its cosey quiet. John Redfield came in as

the evening advanced. He had been sick; and my mother, wheeling the

lounge near the fire, made him lie down and have something warm to

drink. He and Mrs. Morton were intimate with the family from my earliest

recollection.

The four, in their childhood, lived near each other, among the

picturesque hills of Western Pennsylvania. They went to the same school,

played in the same woods, and now, in mature life, retained the warm

regard of the days gone by. I say four; for Mr. Redfield had a

sister,--Mrs. Hague, a pale, lovely little lady, who at one time visited

my mother very often. There had been some estrangement between her and

her brother, the particulars of which I never knew. She had married,

years before, a worthless kind of a man, who kept a shoestore; but he

became involved, the store was sold out by the sheriff and since then

both were in a manner lost.

John Redfield, though an abrupt man, and rather eccentric, had as kind a

heart as any one I ever knew. He was connected with a newspaper in the

city, and wrote wonderful articles about police courts, that, somehow,

sounded more like sermons than stories. In my early days, before

Gutenberg and his movable types came within the scope of my knowledge, I

believed he printed out the whole edition with a lead-pencil, and

entertained most exalted ideas of his capacity. He had a passion for

giving boys painted boats. I must have received twenty--all exactly

alike--at various outbreaks of his generosity. He had the queerest way

of bestowing favors I almost ever saw. When he wished to make a boy a

present, he shoved it roughly into his pocket, and then started off as

if the house was on fire. What brought up the subject I do not now

remember, but that evening Mrs. Morton persisted in talking about Clara

Hague. She spoke of their childhood, of the old homestead, of the

nutting, the apple-picking, the cider-making, and the hundred other

occupations and amusements of their young life.

She had a vivid power of description, and a charming simplicity in her

choice of words, that entertained even me; but I could see Mr. Redfield

was troubled. He moved restlessly on the lounge, and once drew a shawl

over his face. At last she touched on the shoestore, its doleful decay

and downfall, and the years the unhappy woman had struggled on. At this

he started to go; but there was something in her manner that detained

him. Her tone had been light and chatty before; and, though she spoke

with proper gravity, it was sprightly rather than earnest. I did not

notice any striking change; and yet it seemed suddenly to assume the

gentle impressiveness one sometimes fancies we should hear from the

pulpit.

"Whatever be her troubles, Clara has been a good sister to you. You were

the youngest; and a puny little fellow you were then, with all your

greatness. Many and many a time, in your quarrels with other boys, have

I seen her get into no end of disgrace for defending you. Do you

_remember_ that old log school-house, John? and our dinners under the

trees? What baskets of berries and bags of nuts we gathered in those

woods! Do you remember the little run we used to cross, and the fish you

caught in the pool?

"And oh, John! do you remember that day we started home when it rained?

You had been sick, and commenced to cry. We got under a big tree; but it

was November; the leaves had all blown down, and the rain beat through

the branches. What disconsolate little people we were! And when you sat

down on a flat stone, and declared you'd stay there and die, don't you

remember how Clara went out in the bushes, and, taking off her little

flannel petticoat, put it around your shoulders for a cloak?"

The strong man quivered; his face convulsed, and the hot tears started

into his eyes.

"YES! _I'll be hanged if I don't!_"

He clutched up his hat, and was gone in an instant, and the two women,

woman-like, stood sobbing in each other's arms.

The Air.

The thousand-and-one young gentlemen in blue neck-ties, who for a

twelvemonth, in frantic strains, varying from _basso profundo_ to piping

tenor, had proclaimed their entire willingness to "_mourir pour la

patrie_," were engrossed at their shops; innumerable fascinating

trimmers of bonnets, who, like poor little "Dora," religiously believed

the chief end of man consisted in "dancing continually ta la ra, ta la

ra," sat busily plying the needle, elbow-deep in ribbons; the

consumptive-looking flute-player before the foot-lights trilled out his

spasmodic trickle of melody, and contemplated with melancholy pleasure

the excited audience; the lank danseuse ogled and smirked at it behind

them, and, with passionate gestures of her thin legs, implored its

applause; men, women, and children, of all grades and degrees, crowded

into the murky night; for a day was coming when the youths of the

neck-ties would not agree to _mourir_ on any account; when the

flute-player would cease to be contemplative; when the danseuse would

forget her attenuated extremities; when the whole world, where the grace

of the Redeemer is known, would believe that the chief end of the

_hour_, at least, consisted in "dancing continually ta la ra, ta la ra."

Shall "The Air" ring with the joyous notes of the carols, or breathe low

and soft with the sighs of the suffering?

Shall it burst into mad hilarity at the revelry, or wail with the sharp

cries of the poor?

It was a painted house, but the paint had worn off; it had a garden, but

the garden was choked with weeds; its two rooms were once handsomely

furnished, but the furniture was now common and old. It was once a

fashionable street; but fashion had fled before the victorious eagles of

trade. The tenants of that house were once happy and prosperous. What

are they now?

The occupant of the back room was a man, and the occupants of the front

room a woman and her children.

He was sitting at a rude deal table; before him were scattered some

dirty sheets of music, and around him the place was dreary and bare. By

the light of a tallow dip he was playing, in screeching tones, the

commonest of ditties and polkas by note. His coat was once of the

richest; but now it was old and threadbare. His hands were once white

and elegantly shaped; now they were dirty, and blue with cold. His face

once beamed with contentment; now it was worn with care and marked by

the hard lines of penury.

The other room was darker, and, if possible, more dreary. There were two

trundle-beds in a corner, and four bright beings, oblivious to the

discomfort, in the happy sleep of childhood. There was a mattress in

another corner, with a pile of bedquilts and a sheet.

The fire had burned down to a coal. It shone on the mantle with a sickly

glare; and this was the only light there was.

To the mantle-piece were pinned four little stockings, each waiting

open-mouthed for a gift from Santa Claus.

Below them crouched a woman, weeping bitterly.

The woman was Clara Hague; and she was weeping because the Christmas

dawn would find those little mouths unsatisfied.

Our "Air" is getting mournful,--too mournful for this hour of great joy.

The _Te Deum Laudamus_, not the _Miserere_, is for outbursts of gladness

like these.

Let it sing of the carriage that surprised the man from his fiddle and

the woman from her tears by its thunder in the quiet street.

Let it sing of the warm-hearted brother, forgetting the bitterness of

the past, his pockets replenished from a well-saved hoard, who rushed

in, startling the little sleepers with his joyous greeting. Let it chant

the praises of the hampers of wine, and fowls, and dainties, and the

bundles of toys, that same lumbering carriage contained. And last, but

not least, let it thrill with the glad shout of a little newsboy, who,

frantic with delight, hurried on a new gray suit and a pair of bran-new

boots, a present received that very day from his then unknown uncle,

John Redfield.

STORY OF A BEAST.

It was a dirty, grasping little office, vile enough to have been built

by the Evil One; and the occupant was a dirty, grasping little man,

cruel enough to have been made out of its scraps. It was a hard,

remorseless little door, that took in a visitor at a gulp and closed

after him with a bite. If the luckless caller happened to be a debtor,

the fantastic barbarity of his reception was positively infernal. The

jerk of grotesque ferocity that greeted him was like the "hoop la!" of a

demonized gymnast. The straight-backed chair looked like a part of the

stiff, angular man. The yellow-wash on the wall seemed to have caught

its reflex from the faded face, and stared grimly at deep lines of

avarice ironed into it. Even the mud on the floor, the dust on the

table, and the cobwebs on the ceiling maliciously conspired against him,

and asserted themselves in every seam of his threadbare clothes. But the

face,--stern, stony, relentless, an uncertain compromise between the

ghastly severity of a German etching and the constipated austerity of

old pictures of the saints,--in that, one fixed idea had blotted out

every other vestige of humanity. Each starting vein, bone, and muscle

on the hungry visage had "stand and deliver" scarred all over it. The

eager metallic glitter of his eyes, the rigid harshness of his mouth,

and the nameless craving that seemed to speak from his lean, attenuated

cheeks, united to make the name of Hardy Gripstone and Beast synonymous.

He looked like a beast, he ate like a beast, he lived like a beast.

Beast started out of every bristle on his unkempt head; it shone in the

unhealthy gloss of his battered hat; it wallowed on the stock that clung

around his dirty neck; it glistened in the grease on his dingy clothes;

it starved on his thin, claw-like hands; it flourished in the grime

imbedded under his nails; it creaked in his worn-out, down-trodden

shoes. Men, as he shambled by on the streets, unconsciously muttered,

"Beast!" women, shrinking from him, whispered, "Beast!" between the

heart-throbs the terror of his presence created; children, hushing their

cries in silent horror at his grimace, stared "Beast!" out of their

wonder-stricken eyes. You might bray him in a mortar and boil the powder

in a caldron, yet amid all the envy, hatred, and malice that made up the

ingredients, Beast would have triumphantly floated on the top. Beast!

Beast! Beast! Beast! The universal verdict clutched him like the shirt

of Nessus. He actually grew proud of the title, and received the stigma

with a cluck of beastly joy, as though inspired with a certain beastly

ambition to deserve it. The laugh with which he hailed any appeal to his

charity was monstrous. It commenced with a leathery wheeze like the puff

of asthmatic bellows; it croaked with a grating chuckle, as if his

throat opened on rusty hinges; and then it broke out in a shrill vocal

shudder, that sounded like the shriek of a hyena.

It is an idiosyncrasy of mine to foster just such pet abominations; and

I cultivated Hardy Gripstone. My advances were not encouraged by that

overweening tenderness that indicates the possible victim of misplaced

confidence. Far from "wearing his heart upon his sleeve for daws to peck

at," it seemed to have been weaned years agone, and my milk of human

kindness fell flat as any whipped syllabub.

Felicitous as were the suggestions of his suspicious brain, it took me

fully three months to descend in his bearish estimation from a

highwayman to a ninny. There was an incredibility in my apparent lack of

motive that puzzled him. His dubious cordiality was doled out under

protest. As an exhibitor would clutch a vicious ape, he grabbed at every

show of feeling, and almost throttled the most pitiful courtesy, in his

nervous dread of its doing him some bodily harm. There was a low cunning

in his very acceptance of any little kindness. The sly way in which he

insinuated his withered face into my morning papers, and the smirk of

satisfaction with which he gloated on the triumph of having gratuitously

gleaned their entire contents, was in keeping with every other ludicrous

phase of his distorted nature. He looked upon me as a paragon of

stupidity; and I fear I considered him a piece of personal property, and

felt as much pride in the possession as did Barnum in his Aztec

children.

I do not think the acquaintance tended in any way to exaggerate my ideas

of human purity. Though it extended through several years, no guilty act

I ever heard of detracted from his deserved reputation for beastliness.

My surmises never ventured to the hazardous period of infancy, or risked

the doubtful thought that kith or kin _could_ have loved him; but I have

often wondered if there ever _was_ a time when his rapacity found

employment in the robbing of a hen's nest, or his grasping ambition

culminated in the swop of a jack-knife. I wondered if in all the

grotesque concomitants that congregated to make up the hideous whole,

there existed a redeeming trait. Yes, there was _one_,--one I discovered

in the tears that sprung from his unrelenting eyes and rained on his

cadaverous cheeks. What was the anguish that shook his beastly frame?

what the agony that tore his grasping nature? who was the Moses that

smote water from this rock?

Dear hearers, it is here we find the text of the sermon, and here

commenceth the preaching.

* * * * *

Early one summer, the grasping little door bit to for good, and I missed

its mangy proprietor for probably four months. Had he planted himself in

the earth and regerminated, he could not have been more freshened. His

emaciated carcass fairly blossomed with magnificence; and gaudy ornament

sprouted all over him. It peeped through his shirt-front in flashy

studs, it twined on his fingers in glittering rings, it trailed around

his waist in glowing velvet, and expanded over his thin legs and arms in

a forest of broadcloth. 'Tis true, the shiny collar _would_ get over his

ears, the coat-sleeves darkened every sparkle on his hands, and the hems

of his trowsers persisted in being trodden under heel; but what were

petty annoyances like these, in a renovation so complete? His face had

been shaved and polished until it approached in glistening amiability

the ivory head on a walking-stick; but there was an uncertainty in its

ripples of merriment impressive of the belief that if once a genuine ha!

ha! was ventured, the galvanized look of joy would instantly vanish. It

was at a very uncertain gait he sidled into my office. He did not seem

at all sure I would know him, or, in fact, _very_ intimately acquainted

with himself. The mingled gruffness and cordiality of his greeting

suggested a dancing-master suffering with corns. It was a minute or two

before his wonted calmness returned; but finally, with a piteous look of

blended tenderness and brutal exultation, he handed me a card. It

contained the handsomely engraved compliments of Miss Florence

Gripstone, and a hope for the pleasure of my company at a soirée. This

was the magic wand that turned penury to wealth and made the sterile

rock blossom with gorgeous flowers. The beast had a daughter, and with

all the ardor of a distorted nature he loved her.

If, a week before, Gripstone's soirée had been hinted, I think I would

have laughed; but if the assertion had been ventured that it would be

given in a stately house, with spacious grounds, on a fashionable

street, and with "Gripstone" on the door-plate, I know I would have

shouted outright. Yet the house was stately, and the entertainment

superb. Carpets glowing with the gorgeous coloring of the Orient,

pictures that had caught their delicate tinge in sacred Rome, furniture

carved from the solid heart of rose-wood, plate vying in richness with

the state service of a scion of nobility, abounded. Fluttering in the

light of many tinted lamps, rare flowers breathed daintiest odors; and

floating through the high arches, soft music whispered plaintive

ecstasy. In the center of a throng of recently arrived guests, and

positively cropping with broadcloth and Marseilles, beamed the host.

Close at his side, radiant in her beauty, faultless in its adornment,

stood the daughter. In one, a magnificent swallow-tail, fleecy

shirt-frill, and snowy gloves had stamped their wearer with a look of

hopeless absurdity; in the other, exquisite taste, gentle dignity, and

true courtesy bore the impress of glorious womanhood. I was positively

bewildered. Could the father of that lovely girl be the wretch the world

hooted at? Could the owner of all this grandeur be the Beast I fancied

my private property?

Carriage-loads of elegantly attired women crowded each other in the

vestibule; dancing beaux congregated in the smoking-room; eminent

merchants, with their wives and daughters, wits of both sexes, women of

the most exclusive _ton_, thronged the spacious _salons_. Each in their

turn was greeted with a smirk of ecstatic glee. To Gripstone the

courtesy seemed invested with a proprietary interest. A nod was

receipted with a simper, a grasp of the hand with a scrape, the most

distant recognition by the most obsequious acknowledgment. There

appeared to be no doubt in his mind it was all bought and paid for, but

it did no harm to be polite for _once_; and comically polite he was.

I will not say he did not gradually begin to wear the look of a man who

had purchased an elephant; for he did. I found him late in the evening

posted behind a column and peering through the window at the assembled

merry-makers. It was evident he owned the whole party, and that every

ringing laugh went with the property; but to him it was a novel

investment, and perhaps more difficult to manage than any other article

he possessed. Partly from a dim consciousness that he had wandered

beyond his depth, and probably from the loneliness consequent to so

uncongenial a spectacle, a companion had become necessary; and, when I

approached, his jump of cordiality was as uncouth as it was unexpected.

So stunned were my senses by the extraordinary events, that, had he

cried out, "Come to my arms, my long-lost brother!" or were a

strawberry-mark actually found, I could not have been surprised. As it

was, his frenzied tugs at the lapel of my coat threatened its immediate

destruction, and my spinal column ached under his demoniac slaps on the

back, before I gasped out my congratulations.

Wine, excitement, or the society of one who at least had treated him

with common decency, warmed the little geniality that remained in him.

With a jerk he thrust me into his study, and, while thrilling music

swept through the echoing halls, and the solid flooring swayed under the

feet of the dancers, the Beast opened his heart. Shrinking, as though

'twere felony, from the penury of early life, flying from a brief hour

of married happiness, in wild triumph he plunged into the dreariness of

the upward struggle. Maddened with success, spurning all thought of

concealment, with shocking exactness he entered into every detail of the

contest, every incident in the appalling history. The low cunning and

miserable privation that accumulated the first paltry hundreds, the

trickery that made them thousands, the heartless sacrifice of

self-respect that doubled and trebled the swelling store, were gloated

over with a grin of delight. Transactions imbued with a depravity that

made me shudder, were narrated with a chuckle; chicaneries of a depth

and maliciousness positively devilish, were touched with a smirk. For

_this_ he had lied and cheated; for _this_ his wretched body grew lean

for want of food; for _this_ all the world loathed him. In _his_ youth

poverty _crushed_ him; but his little girl, away at school, never knew

the meaning of the word. Widows went portionless, but _she_ did not

want; orphans starved, _her_ platter was always full. _He_ had been

spattered by the coaches of the rich; but now his chariot, and _her_

chariot, would take a drive. They had called him Beast; but _now_ they

called him _gentleman_.

The hundreds who drank his wine and trifled with his sweets called him

gentleman, and hundreds more were ready to go down on their knees to his

own flesh and blood. Now was the time to enjoy, now the day of

happiness. Money was a drug; in his abundance, he could never want. He

had love, grandeur, troops of friends; _now_ he would live a monarch.

Flushed with victory, his eyes blazed, his voice rang clear and loud in

its exultation, and his lank form swelled with defiance. Springing to

his feet, and clutching up a decanter, he waved it wildly around his

head, and, challenging God or man to mar such peace, shivered it on the

floor.

Wonder-stricken at the intensity of his vulgarity, and shocked at the

sacrilege, I left; and from that moment Hardy Gripstone became a study.

Every step in his tortuous course, every phase of his ostentation, every

enormity on good taste, was followed with ceaseless vigilance. Excesses

that would have startled the most thoughtless were pursued with restless

activity; absurdities that drew forth a shout of ridicule were committed

with provoking good humor. No freak seemed exuberant, no folly

preposterous, no extremity extravagance. The joy of paternity, sinking

deep into his nature, made every peculiarity more glaringly apparent.

Money had been his idol, its accumulation the summit of his ambition;

its reckless sacrifice in his daughter's honor appeared the only

adequate expression of his love. The intervals of his devotion were

passed in idle boasting, and to me he detailed every incident. There was

something really touching in the abject way in which he mentioned each

trifle concerning her. Little circumstances connected with her daily

life were described as one would describe the traits of some rare

animal. His career of degradation seemed to have blunted every idea of

responsibility. He looked upon her as a superior being, and her

adornment as a sacred duty. The richness of her toilet, the magnificence

of her equipage, the glory of her beauty, became an inexhaustible

surprise and delight. The utter lack of congeniality, the barrier of

caste that divided them, was indescribably sad. Rapturous admiration,

gentle amazement, blind idolatry, meek bewilderment, the one twisted by

brutality to a living distortion, the other lifted by refinement to the

embodiment of womanly grace; and yet they were father and daughter. To

do her justice, she strove in every way to testify her love and

gratitude for her strange parent; the ties of blood asserted themselves

in her words and caresses, but they looked doubtfully out of her eyes.

Educated far away from him, and amid other associations, she could not

be blind to his faults and shortcomings. The social gulf that divided

them, though bridged by her sense of duty, was ever present in her

thoughts. I mourned over the remorseless avarice that made him what he

was; I almost regretted the culture that placed her so far above him;

but, knowing the rude shocks to her sensitive nature, the ruthless

trampling on every womanly instinct, I mourned for her the most.

Alas for the schemes of prosy men and women! when tender Loveliness

goes airing herself through shady lanes, frank young Valor is seldom far

off. The Eurydice may be only a school-girl, and Orpheus a brave, manly

boy in a blue coat; but there is a world of heart-fluttering, for all

that. The flush of conscious beauty blooming on the cheek of one, is

generally a shadow of the warm red that mantles the face of the other.

While Eurydice Gripstone mused in quiet nooks, it was no fabled youth of

magic lyre who sent the rhetoric and botany waltzing through her brain;

and when the fierce cry of "Lights out!" hurried _Jane Eyre_ under the

pillow, it was no dream of impossible mustaches that made her hear the

clocks chime dismally and the cocks crow for midnight.

When the long-looked-forward-to Commencement-day was at length looked

_on_, and our heroine tripped up to the platform to read her Essay on

Filial Affection, alas for its consistency! it was not the grin of Pluto

Gripstone staring stupidly at the show, but the smile of Orpheus, now

blessed with a strong beard, that set the recipient of undying fame a

trembling. And now, when the farewell had been said, and Orpheus left to

break his lyre and mourn,--when Pluto had carried home his prize and the

dreary occupation of being as extravagant as possible had

commenced,--they were no notes of weird pathos, but billets containing

many brave promises, that made strong coffee the most delectable of

drinks. Of course all these changes from dreamy reverie to tremulous joy

could not escape the searching eye of Pluto; and of course, when

questioned, no Eurydice of spirit would think of denying the mate for

whom she pined.

Oh, the consternation of the discovery! Oh, the thunders of remonstrance

with which Hades resounded! The wheel of Ixion might whirl, and the

pitchy depths blaze with the fires of indignation, but all this did not

dry the tears of the nymph, nor soothe her bitterness of woe. Every

tenderness that could reconcile, every enjoyment that could wean, was

vainly essayed; mourning for her Orpheus, she would not be comforted.

At last the Plutonian shadows opened to receive the matchless man. It

was with no impossible burst of harmony he charmed away the terrors of

this prison-house of injured innocence. Whatever might have been the

Orpheus of the fabled "long ago," our modern hero was a plain,

business-like man. He thought a great deal of the daughter, but for her

worn-out old hulk of a father he didn't care a button. Married he was

determined to be, _nolens volens_; and that was the long and the short

of it. To a piteous plea to remain and enjoy the old man's wealth, he

turned the deafest of ears. Business required his presence at home;

where business commanded, he obeyed; and that was the long and the short

of that. _He_ didn't propose to set up a museum of deformities, if the

daughter did; or stay to witness a burlesque on the society he was

brought up in, were she never so dutiful.

Oh, the misery of this reality! When shall I forget the anguish on that

cadaverous face, when the terror of the narration? For nineteen years he

had patiently plodded on, despised by the rich, hated by the poor,

spurned by both. He had driven hard bargains that she might drive her

carriage; he had turned his wretched debtors houseless into the streets

that she might be covered. With every spark of love in his heart, with

every instinct of tenderness in his soul, he had bowed down and

worshiped her. She had him all: he would set to work anew, were it

needful, for her sake; he would go in rags for her; he would starve for

her; and this was his reward!--his happiness filched from him by a

whipster of a day's acquaintance!

When two people, like the frogs of Æsop, conclude to plunge down a well

for the waters of happiness, it is generally the "weaker vessel" who

dallies. Let no one suppose our Eurydice quitted the blissful innocence

of nymphhood without a struggle, or coolly deserted her battered old

father without a regret.

With all the golden halo that hung about the future, there were walks

taken in those gardens in which the claw-like hands and tapering fingers

clutched each other very tightly, and there were sudden bursts of

emotion when the cadaverous cheeks were well-nigh smothered with kisses.

If you or I had had an interview with the pillow that adorned her

chamber, it would have told us of many a scalding tear that damped its

purity and many a smothered sob that fell on its feathery ears. If there

were red eyes and pallid cheeks at the breakfast-table on one side,

there was a very dismal face on the other. Step by step the hard fact

sunk into it, and furrow after furrow marked the progress. It was very

glorious for Orpheus; but it was very gloomy for the Beast, and he knew

it. Bravely did the old man hold out, and grim and silent was the

surrender. Perhaps a dawning light of their ill-assorted association,

and a fear for its influence on her happiness, might have opened the

sally-port to the conqueror; but he never admitted it. He laid down his

arms as coldly and quietly as ever any old Spanish knight gave up his

citadel.

Once more the stately house opened wide its doors to a stately

gathering, and again there was music and dancing and feasting. There

were scores of richly-dressed women to kiss the bride, and there were

scores of brave men to congratulate the groom; but there was not one in

all that fair company had a kindly word for Hardy Gripstone, and of all

the throng who feasted that night there was not one saw his broken

heart.

From the hour the creaking steamer bore the happy pair to their Northern

home, he slunk out of society. The great house was closed, and the

little office, dirtier and more grasping than ever, opened. Every

witness to his outburst, myself included, was studiously avoided. I met

him often; but no sign of recognition escaped him.

Some months afterward, in passing his filthy little street, I found the

remorseless little door had gulped a policeman. Pulling apart its

ferocious jaws, and peering in, I saw the straight-backed chair; but the

body which seemed a part of it was much stiffer and more angular. The

yellow-wash on the wall was a paltry reflex of the ghastly yellow of his

faded visage; for the iron face was the face of a corpse.

Men who stood vacantly staring in muttered, "Beast!" women, shrinking

from the unsightly spectacle, whispered, "Beast!" and children, gazing

in silent horror with the rest, stared "Beast!" out of their

wonder-stricken eyes. So hard did they stare, so loud did they mutter,

and so many instances did they rehearse of the foul wrongs he had

committed, that I am doubtful about the matter myself, and ask you,

reader, Was he a Beast?

LEAVES IN THE LIFE OF AN IDLER.

Leaf the First.

When a man whom you have every reason to believe not only the coolest,

but the most unimpressible, of beings, suddenly turns white as a ghost

and shivers with a nervous spasm, it is safe to suppose he is

frightened. But when terror, turning into rage, changes one of the most

attentive and respectful of servants into a madman, it is scarcely safe

to suppose anything. As it was, I stared in mute amazement, and he

glared at me as though I had struck him. While waiting for a light, I

carelessly put my hand into a basket of hot-house vegetables. The small

egg-plant I took up certainly _did_ weigh twenty pounds, and when I

attempted to lift the basket the handle bent double; but why this should

frighten a man like Marcel, or provoke him to anger, is as inexplicable

as it is surprising.

He is pacing up and down the hall in a state of the wildest excitement;

and I, with man's truest comfort,--tobacco,--am left to my meditations.

What combination of circumstances reduced him to a porter, I cannot for

the life of me imagine. His hand is as soft as a woman's; and his brow

has a breadth of brain that would dignify a Senator. Notwithstanding the

scrupulous deference in his tone, his manner possesses the quiet ease of

a gentleman, to as great a degree as any I ever saw.

The utter incongruity of his appearance and position struck me the

moment I laid eyes on him. He flourished his napkin with the dainty

grace of a courtier; and when he lifted my luggage to his shoulder, I

was on the point of apologizing. He makes my bed, polishes my shoes,

performs with fidelity the most menial offices; and yet I _cannot_ but

look upon him as an equal. Poor devil! His cheek may burn with the

bluest blood in France. What a pity the world is not moral!

There is something enchanting to me in smoking. It is like a rich

cordial,--nerving every faculty to action. A draught from your

_Cabanas_, the pulse quickens, the mind clears, and thought awakes, like

a fine instrument under the magic touch of a master. The wind moans

drearily without, the rain beats dismally against the windows, the

fagots flicker blue-flamed and weird in the dark recesses of the

chimney-place; but what care I? The white walls are lurid in the flare,

the great bed stands out in the darkness like a grotesque engine of the

Inquisition; but who suffers? _Au troisième, No. 30, Rue Lepelletier_,

was never noted for its comforts; but who would ask a repose more

secure, a peace more perfect, than are enjoyed by the occupant of this

rambling old house? Blessed be the earth that bears this solace for

weary brains! Its very odor is pregnant with dreams of the _Vuelta

Abajo_. You see the luxuriant foliage of the tropics, the dark-green

waves curling on the coral beach, and the scarlet flamingoes that gather

shell-fish in the marshes away off in the golden sunset. You hear the

wild song of the Spanish fruit-man as he sculls his boat along the

broken wharves, and are soothed into utter listlessness by the thousand

perfumes that come off with the land-breeze. A taste of the fragrant

vapor, you recline in the odorous orange darkness of a dream-land,

languidly breathing the smoke from your hookah, and the lustrous leaves

moving over you are bathed in the soft and melting sunshine. The day

lingers luminously over far mountain-ranges, paling in brilliancy on the

hill-side, where the blushing vine, bending with the clusters, is still

enlivened by the song of the vintagers; and in the valley, where the

grain sheds its gold under the sickle. You are lost in voluptuous

reverie. You breathe the sunlight; intellect is thawed and mellowed;

emotions take the place of thought; "your senses, sun-tranced, rise into

the sphere of soul." You feel the heart of humanity throbbing through

all nature, and your own warms into quivering life.

"It is not good for man to live alone;" and you dream of another to

share the rapture your wild fancy has created.

_Your_ Haidee is pure. Her form has rather the statuesque roundness of

Psyche than the luxurious excess of Venus. Timid, yet not tremulous,

graceful even to delicacy, coquettish in outline, _her_ beauty is formed

for smiles. She is a still-eyed Xenobi, but knows nothing of Passion

with disheveled locks, divine frenzy, and fiery grasp. She is your

friend and comforter; and you are the strong rock her helplessness

clings to. Your uncouth manner softens as you behold her troubled look.

You become kind and considerate. You watch with pity the pinched faces

of anxiety that pass before you. You cheer the little beggar, and give

him of your abundance. Unhappy wanderer! he has started early on his

wretched pilgrimage for bread. "Your heart, enlarged by its new sympathy

with one, grows bountiful to all." The fragrant smoke curls in heavier

clouds, and is wafted imperceptibly into the darkness. Ah, Arthur

Granger! Arthur Granger! you are dreaming impossibilities, as the man

athirst dreams of flowing waters.

"Love has lost its wings of heavenly azure with which it soared light as

a lark into the empyrean, and now grovels on the earth, weighed down by

the burden of red gold."

How well I recollect that warm, balmy March morning! My mother had sent

me to Paris about six months before, to read law with an old relative.

Of course I was delighted; but that day I felt tired of the dull routine

of my life, and longed for the green fields, waving trees, and wild

mountain-torrents of my home. I was walking slowly down the street,

thinking gloomily of the labors of another day, and she was standing

near a school-house door, intently occupied in giving some directions to

an old soldier. In my whole life I do not think I ever saw a more

beautiful creature. The airiness of the lithe little figure, the

playfulness in the nod of the graceful head, the look of joyous

innocence on that perfect face, flitted through my mind like a bright

ray of sunshine during the entire day. Every morning, for years after, I

met that child; and every morning her beaming smile cheered my young

life like a glimpse of heaven. I never spoke to her; it was a long time

before she even knew of my existence; but by-and-by I noticed a

quizzical expression come over the old man's face, and I saw her

features warm with a faint flush of recognition. How many dreams I based

on that slight fabric! Of course I discovered her name; and of course I

learned that her father was very rich; but what was that to me? With

what pride did I gaze at his name in huge gilt letters on a great

warehouse near us, and what wonderful little gothic cottages did I build

on the strength of the "and Son" that would shortly be added to it! The

long nights with my cousin became less wearisome. I could hear the dull

creaking of the letter-press, and see him sit poring over his writing,

quite patiently. When the organ-grinder stopped on the corner and played

"Make me no gaudy chaplet," I did not long to rush into the streets, for

I had _her_ to think about. When the clock struck eleven, and my cousin,

with his peculiar "phew!" commenced another letter, I looked on quite

calmly, and began the construction of another cottage. Of course there

were rainy days, and Thursdays that were ages to me; and there were

Christmas holidays, and long, hot vacations, that she did not come; but

September brought back the radiant face, and I worshiped on.

Gradually I noticed a change in her dress. She wore little lace collars,

and bright ribbons I had not seen before; and sometimes she carried a

little bouquet of violets, with a white rosebud in the center. As she

grew older, I had many rivals. Gallant youths, brave in broadcloth and

beavers, followed by dozens the _Picciola_ I had watched so tenderly.

How proudly I passed them by! and how I sneered at the thought of their

understanding _her_!

I saw her form grow fuller and expand into a more queenly beauty. I saw

her eyes sparkle with a diviner light, and her bosom swell with new and

strange emotions. I watched her until she became a woman, and gloried in

her matchless loveliness.

At last the end came. One morning, the brown calico frock was changed

for an India silk, and the little school bonnet, with its blue veil, for

a new one, covered with artificials. She was accompanied by an elderly

lady, and looked nervous and excited. I was troubled at the tremulous,

uncertain expression of her face. The next day I read her name in the

list of graduates.

It does generally rain at picnics; but this time it didn't. When shall I

ever forget that picnic? I stole a holiday to attend it. It was late

when I arrived: the dinner was over, and I had one prepared expressly

for me. Would you believe it? my fair attendant was the little Blue

Veil. She was so kind and so gentle, and treated me in such a confiding,

sisterly way. There was a tenderness in the soft depths of her eyes, a

purity in the dazzling loveliness of her face, that my heart yielded to

with the blind fervor of a devotee. When shall I ever forget that

evening walk under the trees? Oh! those buttercups and daisies, and

little Quaker ladies! what recollections they bring back to me! The

pressure of that soft little hand on my arm, the timid grace of her

manner, the sound of her clear, girlish voice, with what emotions have

they stirred my soul! Heaven bless her! Thank God for that one glorious

picture! It was years ago; she is married now, and the mother of

children; yet even now I sometimes catch myself standing on the corners

and gazing wistfully down the street for the bright image that stole

into the morning of my young life like a soothing dream in a long,

troubled sleep.

Leaf the Second.

Gardening in midwinter!--what new freak has taken possession of that

eccentric man? The morning broke dank and drear, for the December air

had chilled the moisture into a fog. The wide verandas that opened on

the court-yard in rear were dripping with the rain, and the broad

flag-stones covered with a greasy slime. The diminutive grass-plot was

brown and soggy, but the withered blades rapidly disappeared under the

sturdy plunges of Marcel's spade. I had gone out on the gallery to fill

a ewer with water--in his excitement of the previous evening, Marcel had

forgotten my morning bath--and saw him distinctly through the

_jalousies_. He must have commenced at daylight; for, though it was then

early, the ground was almost entirely dug up. Near him, on the pavement,

was the basket over which he had displayed so much agitation. He

prepared six holes, each of which was carefully lined with straw, and

then deliberately commenced planting the egg-plants _whole_.

An hour or two later, he came up with the coffee. I thought he turned a

shade or two paler at seeing me up and dressed; but no vestige of

petulance remained. Having really taken no offense at the outburst, I

rallied him concerning it.

"I was wrong," said he, gravely; "but nature has left me destitute of

tact. An artist was once ordered to paint a one-eyed princess: the

artful man made the picture a profile. Devoid of his discernment, I saw

only my ruined treasures."

"And, after acting like a wild man, you sneer at my curiosity."

"One so secure in his position as M. Granger can lose nothing by

forbearance."

"In other words, I am to endure patiently the taunts of an apron,

because its wearer is worthy of a surtout?"

"The prompt nature of hunger is well known. Fifty years ago, I might

have shrieked in the _Place de la Concorde_. France has degenerated; I

polish your shoes."

The assumption of inferiority was so defiant that I said, bluntly, "This

can never excuse the neglect of faculties bestowed by Heaven."

He shrugged his shoulders, and answered, "There was a time when power

succumbed to intellect. 'Stand out of my sunlight,' said Diogenes to

Alexander; and Alexander did so. This is Paris, M. Granger, and we are

living on the _Rue Lepelletier_."

"And, frightened at its splendor, M. Marcel has prudently determined to

put his brains under regimen."

"M. Marcel has prudently determined to avoid in future a _tête-à-tête_

with his superiors."

He started abruptly to the door, and I called him back; determined

distance even in a servant is far from flattering, and I asked him

frankly if his visits to my apartments were as distasteful as his manner

would lead me to infer.

He answered, politely, "Were fickle Fortune waiting to conduct me to the

summit of my ambition, I would detain her a few hours to enjoy society

so charming; but M. Granger forgets he is addressing a domestic."

"Stubborn in your pride to the last! What am I to think of one who holds

all sympathy in contempt?"

"_Basta!_" he fiercely exclaimed. "I am like a vagrant cur: flying from

the sticks and stones of a vile rabble, I fawn with cringing servility

on the first hand that throws me a crust."

"Wrong, Marcel; wrong," I earnestly answered. "You are trying to warp

your nature, as you tried to force the fruits of summer to bloom and

ripen in midwinter. You _will_ be human, and your egg-plants will rot in

the earth."

My words seemed to have taken away every particle of color there was in

him. His eyes contracted until they resembled those of a wild animal,

and for a moment I thought he was going to spring at my throat. His

voice--when finally he regained it--sounded like that of another

person.

"M. Granger," said he, "a man visiting the _Jardin des Plantes_ once

undertook to stroke a leopard. Strange as it may appear, the animal was

more pleased with petting than the inquiring mind imagined. The instant

our naturalist attempted to desist, the creature raised his paw to

strike. There monsieur stood, for a whole night, gazing into his glaring

eyes and smoothing his soft neck. Can you imagine his feelings?"

With a bow that would have graced the Duc de Beaumont, he left. I heard

him hastily packing his modest wardrobe; and in fifteen minutes a

tilbury had whirled him away--whither, Heaven only knows.

Leaf the Third.

I do not think his own mother would call him handsome; he is certainly

not young, nor particularly brilliant; and yet there is a fascination

about the proprietor of this rambling old house that gave me an

unaccountable desire to become his tenant. He is a wine-merchant, and

occupies, as his counting-room, the entire second floor. The place is

desolate-looking and dusty, and the furniture old with service; but, I

am told, no man in Paris controls more of the grand vintages than M.

Pontalba. With a Frenchman, the _legality_ of a transaction depends on

its being negotiated in a _café_; and it was in one of these I first saw

him. He was seated at a table near me, absorbed with the contents of a

box of baby-clothes, while a rather pretty and exceedingly voluble

_modiste_ harangued him on their beauty. The tenderness of his

expression struck me. He took out the articles one by one, examining

each with the interest of a woman. He ran his fingers through the tiny

sleeves, and smoothed out the ruffles and lace, with a care that was

almost loving. Diminutive cambric shirts, snowy dresses, and silky

flannels,--all in their turn were inspected and replaced with a sigh of

satisfaction.

An ardent young friend and I had been discussing the merits of Comte's

philosophy; but so attracted were we by the singular trait that both

stopped involuntarily, and watched him, until the woman was paid and a

messenger carried the fairy wardrobe away.

My friend was an enthusiastic metaphysician; and, resuming the subject

with a zest, was soon plunged into the phenomena of thought, the action

of the brain, and the vitality of the blood that sustained it. As all

conversant with the subject can readily believe, not many minutes

elapsed before his artful sophistries proved the non-existence of

heaven, hell, and even God himself.

M. Pontalba turned suddenly, and, drawing his chair close beside us,

with an apology for the seeming intrusion, addressed the incipient

skeptic:

"Behind the iron bars of that dreariest of studies, a prison, a little

weed once received the concentrated thought of a savant. The covering of

its stem, the first tender leaves, the development of the bud, the

expansion of the flower--each bewildering in its consummate

propriety--unfolded, in their turn, a system of laws in simplicity

transcendent. By the aid of a microscope, a 'gillyflower' was seen

protecting a chrysalis. Warm leaves cherished it, dainty juices aided

its digestion, wholesome offshoots nourished it to maturity. Eking out a

scant existence between two granite flags, this insignificant waif

reared a caterpillar. What man are you, who can say there is no God?"

There was a pathos in his voice, and a tone of simple fervor, which gave

that quiet old man the air of a priest.

It was more than a year afterward I took these rooms; but my

establishment was of short duration ere I learned the history of an

eventful morning which followed that incident:--of how the placid face

of the master peered among his people, beaming with a great joy; how a

sumptuous feast was fitted up in the private office for all in the

employ; of the two hundred francs, and a suit of clothes, presented to

each; and how every one, from the little messenger to the gray cashier,

with the rarest wine in the cellar, drank prosperity to the new-born son

and heir, and much happiness to the mother,--"God bless her!"

Once I saw a pony-carriage, with an aged, semi-military driver, pull up

at the door, and the flutter of a veil as the vehicle passed through

the entrance; and this was the only glimpse I ever caught of the little

lady that dingy office called mistress. There was, however, a certain

briskness in the movement of the clerks, and a glow of pleasure on their

faces, that always denoted a visit; and very frequent those visits were.

Without in any way obstructing it, her pretty interest seemed to throw a

halo around the dull routine of trade; and, if there was any

unpleasantness, the arrival of Jean Palliot, coachman and ex-grenadier,

with Madame Althie Pontalba, was sure to drive it away.

Why _will_ my heart, like a hungry thing, gloat on the happiness of

others? He has gone away--in the midst of the holidays--no one knows

whither; and his sweet wife and pleasant home are as dreary as I. There

is a mystery about this house which I have not yet unraveled. Marcel

left in the morning, and M. Pontalba in the evening. That has been two

weeks ago. I thought he would have fainted when I told him of the

_garçon's_ exodus. I attempted a history of the gardening; but he would

not listen to a word, and remained locked up in his private room during

the entire day. Late in the evening a stranger called, and insisted on

an interview. It resulted in a hasty consultation with the cashier, and

an order for a coach. The two went off together,--whither, or for how

long, no one knows.

Leaf the Fourth.

To-day finds a man in the full glow of health, and strength, and

happiness; to-morrow comes death, cold, pitiless, irresistible; mocking

all hope, freezing desire, crushing all effort with the eternal law of

time and human destiny, it strikes him down with the icy fury of a

fiend. Poetry, passion, humanity, are shivered at the touch. The

glorious creature who, an instant before, quivered with life and love

and energy, lies a shapeless mass, disgusting to the sight, loathsome to

the touch, revolting to every instinct of our nature. So, in its

ceaseless routine, forever and forever, wheels on the world. The

play-ground bully, the swindler of the corn exchange, who is the more

virtuous? dolls with life, babies with genius, which the more sensible?

Even baby has its "pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake," and is lulled to sleep with

visions of a coach and six little ponies. Dreams, dreams of self, that

man wraps himself in like the swathing of a mummy. Who ever saw a cake

marked with "T," who ever a "Valley of Tranquil Delight"?

The sun rises and sets on the weary diamond-digger of the South, the

crazed perfume-hunter in the East, the stifled hemp-curer in the fetid

swamps of Russia, the shriveled iron-worker in the scorching furnaces of

England. Here, in Paris, amid that motley herd who feed on virtue, the

moon shines down calmly on purblind embroiderers and peerless beauties,

on worn-out _roués_ and squalid beggars. The breeze that wafts to heaven

the pure prayer of the maiden witnesses the fierce ribaldry of the

courtesan; it flutters the curls of a sleeping infant, and bears on its

wings the whispered exchange of _chastity for bread_. And man goes on,

devouring his three poor meals a day, and babbling the meaningless

nothings he has learned by rote. Oh, land of enlightenment! Oh, age of

Christianity! Oh, zenith of civilization!

The smoke-wreaths curl into thicker clouds. I have painted bright

pictures, and they have faded. I have cherished fond dreams, and they

are vanished. "It is not good for man to live alone;" and I am most

solitary. I can make another picture,--without the roses; but it will be

true.

It's a merry Christmas, this Twenty-fifth of December, eighteen hundred

and eighty-seven,--a very merry Christmas; times have scarcely changed

at all in the last thirty years. The sun shines down brightly, and the

frosty air is fall of gladness; for Santa Claus, with his untold

wonders, has come and gone. Ecstasies over dolls and transports over

tea-sets, screams of delight at hobby-horses and enthusiastic

exclamations at humming-tops, have passed. Paint-boxes and

writing-desks, leaden soldiers and tin trumpets, at last, are reduced to

blissful matters of course. The streets, which all the morning have

been thronged with laughing groups of happy children, are now almost

deserted. Senators and cabmen, ministers of state and town constables,

romping school-girls and worn-out actresses, _Lady Dedlock_ and her

washer-woman, men, women, and children of all degrees, have quietly

seated themselves to roasted turkey and plum-pudding. Even the little

boys who _will_ play marbles under the library windows, who are

constantly being "fat" and wanting "ups" and "roundings," and who are

invariably ordered to "knuckle down and bore it hard," are now intently

occupied with the succulent delights of "drum-sticks" and gizzards. And

yet the man whose fingers now form these letters _then_ sits alone. Time

has not passed lightly over _his_ head. The few hairs that straggle from

beneath his skull-cap are gray, and the faintest breath makes him wrap

closer in his thickly-wadded dressing-gown. His face is worn and pale,

and the wrinkled hand, though it only holds a little cigarette, will

sometimes tremble as it moves. The Christmas dinner is pushed away

untasted. _Château-Margaux_ has lost its flavor, and silver and crystal

do not bring appetite now. Even the glowing sunshine, which plate-glass

and silk damask cannot keep out, is unheeded. He gazes wearily at the

magnificent furniture, and smokes. He has talked much to the world, and

it has heard him. Flung into life without a friend, governed only by

the will of a race born to command, he has struggled through sneers and

sarcasm to eminence. Men fear him now, women flatter, nearly all envy;

yet he is alone. He knows this; he knows that in all the laughing groups

who enjoy this wine-drinking and turkey-eating day his name has not been

mentioned once. Nature allows no trifling with her laws; flowers do not

bloom in deserts. He has crushed sentiment; he has stifled affection.

With a heart by nature kindly, he sits now an image cut in steel. He

gazes calmly at his desolate hearth, at his joyless age, and smokes. Man

has no power to move him; fate condemned him to be a statue.

Ah! the strongest, after all, are but weak, erring, human beings. The

last of a race stands weary and old, trembling on the brink of eternity.

Who will close the fading eye? Who will smooth the dying pillow? With

all his great wealth, with all his wondrous knowledge, what one deed of

charity will that infirm old man take into the presence of his Creator?

He looks dreamingly out at the window. The plate-glass and damask are

not there now; the sunshine is warm and the air balmy. A mild, breezy

March morning, and he is standing on a corner, looking far down the

street. "She is coming, coming;" the dark eyes beam on him, and the

radiant face flushes the pallor of his cheek;--"come." He gives one

lingering, beseeching look at the passing figure, the cigarette drops

to the carpet, the withered hands clasp convulsively the arms of the

chair, the gray head slowly falls on his breast, and one more frail

human being, exhausted with the anxieties of a long and bitter life, is

at rest forever. It's a merry Christmas, this Twenty-fifth of December,

eighteen hundred and eighty-seven,--a very merry Christmas. Times have

scarcely changed at all in the last thirty years.

How he ever got there, or when, I do not now, nor will I ever, know, but

when I looked up Marcel was standing before me.

"M. Granger," said he, abruptly, "it will be necessary for you to seek

another lodging."

"Why?"

"I would do you a service. The proof lies in the future. This house is

doomed."

"Poor Marcel," said I, with genuine pity, "some recent trouble has

turned your brain!"

"Mad!" he replied, laughing bitterly. "The wonder is that I am not. For

years I have been hunted,--hunted like a dog. Prisons have been my

dwelling-place, disguises my only clothing. My pillow is a spy; the very

atmosphere I breathe is analyzed."

"And what is your offense?"

"A desire to live as the great God intended an Italian should. A desire

to lift to his place among the free-born the corrupt descendant of

Coriolanus, now nourishing his miserable body on the _scudi_ extorted

from a stranger's patience. The vile crew whom our ancestors drove

howling and naked across the Danube, in undisturbed apathy gloat over

our dearest treasures. Our people are ground into the dust; our women,

stripped in the market-place, shriek under the pitiless lash of the

oppressor. One man, sworn to protect Italy with his life, can save her,

and has refused. That man dies."

"And you are pledged to kill him?"

"I am pledged to see you safely without these walls by this day

fortnight."

"And you?"

"I remain."

"Marcel, you are crazy."

"M. Granger, you are polite."

That night fortnight I was away; and this was the message that sent me:

"TO M. ARTHUR GRANGER:

"Your fatal discovery on the morning of my departure makes you

the only man to whom I can appeal. Let me pray the appeal be

not in vain. In the folly of my youth, while sojourning in

Italy, I joined a powerful secret order, whose demands cease

only with death, and whose penalty for denial is a sudden and

bloody end. You can judge, then, my anxiety on being compelled

to admit to my establishment, disguised as a servant, one of

its highest officers, and my horror at hearing of his abrupt

departure. Since then I have learned the unhappy cause. My life

is in another's hands. It is for him to command, and for me

blindly to obey. There are two beings in this world dearer to

me than my soul's salvation. To you, M. Granger, as a Christian

gentleman, I commend them. The sealed note inclosed (the

contents of which are a matter of life and death) I beg you

will at once deliver to my wife; and let me conjure you, until

the crisis is over, to make my house at Romainville your home.

"ÉDOUARD PONTALBA."

Leaf the Last.

This is the 15th of January, 1858. France is in a blaze of excitement.

Last evening, in the _Rue Lepelletier_, an attempt was made to

assassinate the Emperor, by throwing grenades filled with fulminating

mercury under the coach that bore the Imperial family to the Italian

Opera. Count Felice Orsini, the murderer, himself desperately wounded,

has been arrested, and Paris is crying for his blood.

For several days I have been the honored guest of Madame Althie

Pontalba. It is a golden evening; the sky, an hour ago so clear and

blue, is piled with golden clouds, and stretches out into golden rivers,

with golden banks, flowing calmly down into a golden sea. The purple

slates on the church-steeple, the red tiles on the house-tops, the

gardens with their evergreens and jonquils and little blue violets

shrinking out of the frosty air, are wrapped in a golden mist. The light

streams through the windows in rays of pure gold, and trickles down the

walls in little golden currents. It is an enchanting little villa. The

steep gables covered with variegated slate, the thin fluted columns of

the verandas, the diminutive marble steps, the broad bow-windows with

their transparent plate-glass, look more like a fairy picture than a

reality. The trim shrubbery, the airy little statues, and even the white

palings, so frail and fanciful in their construction, are charmingly

appropriate.

It is an enchanting little room. The icy air is warmed by the bright

carpet and glowing curtains, and the trickling currents of golden light

on the walls are mellowed by the blazing sea-coals. It is a merry little

fire, an ardent, earnest, _home_ fire, that shoots out its whimsical

little flames as if it meant to burn one to a cinder, and flutters and

murmurs to itself and scatters down the white feathery ashes in a very

ecstasy of impetuous glee. The green porcelain tiles on the hearth, the

oval-shaped chairs, the wonderful tables, and the little easy-chair, are

all flushed up, and seem quite enlivened at its sportive tricks. The

silver sewing-bird, with its glittering little garnet eyes, is peering

curiously down at the painted fish-geranium on the teapot; and the

geranium, sweltering by the fire, seems almost wilted with the heat.

The teapot pants and struggles under its steaming contents, and looks

appealingly at the great china cup on the table; and now a lump of

sparkling sugar is dropped into its shiny recesses, and the fragrant

odor of that gentlest soother of troubled thoughts pervades the room.

How shall I describe the mistress of this fairy resting-place, as she

sits in the softened light of this golden winter evening, with the

trickling golden currents and the quivering firelight playing on her

dress, and the last rays of the sunshine melting into golden threads in

her hair? How can I picture the look of girlish innocence on her face,

the artless grace of her manner, her delicate feminine ways, and the

dainty arrangement of her toilet? How can I tell of the irresistible

charm that pervades every article about her, from the little French boot

resting on the rug, to the ruffle that circles her white throat? The

balmy morning of her young life has passed. The brown calico frock, and

the little school bonnet, with its blue veil, have been put away

forever. The lithe figure has grown matronly, the childish timidity is

gone; the softened face tells of changes,--changes made by much

happiness; changes also, alas! by trouble.

The dark eyes beam with a deeper tenderness, with a wealth of maternal

devotion, with a world of maternal anxiety. The aurora, with its hazy

glow, has disappeared, and now the sun shines brightly on the early

day; yet through all the love, and all the care, and all the joy of her

pure life, remains that radiant smile, the glorious creation of a

glorious God, that awakens in man one sensation,--tranquillity. O man,

with the joy of your _own_ young love, O woman blessed with a

remembrance of earlier days, is it needful I should say, Madame Althie

Pontalba is the Little Blue Veil?

There were two visitors here an hour ago,--a lady and a gentleman.

Whatever their lack of ostentation, there was an air of distinction

about both that would strike the most casual observer.

The cabriolet was plain, but the horses showed the purest blood, and the

harness and equipments a neatness one would not see in a day's ride. The

gentleman was tall and stately, with a well-shaped aquiline nose, and a

mustache and imperial pointed _à la militaire_; and the lady was petite

and graceful, with a face of rare loveliness. The features of both told

plainly of a great trial bravely endured. The lady entered alone. Her

carriage and demeanor possessed all that quiet elegance which is only

met with in the society of the great; but it was with no courtly speech

she addressed the mistress of this quiet home. To twine her arms

lovingly around that dear form, to draw it close to her bosom, to pour

out, in a voice broken with tears, a burst of gratitude, was the

mission. In moments when hearts are wrung, we do not practice our grand

politeness. A noble life had been saved, a terrible calamity averted.

The polished manner of the _salon_ was dropped. A _wife_ spoke, a

_woman_ listened. The visit was already a long one when Jean Palliot

took charge of the equipage, and, on leaving, it was into _his_ hand the

gentleman thrust a roulette of Napoleons.

"Sir," cried the indignant coachman, "a soldier of the Grand Army is not

a beggar."

"It is not the gold, but the portraits of his commander I give the

soldier of the Grand Army."

"_Mon Dieu!_" exclaimed the now affrighted veteran, "it is

Napoleon!--_Vive l'Empereur!_"

* * * * *

Of the history of that attempt on the life of Napoleon, the world is

fully informed. That, thanks to a fortunate warning, the Imperial coach

was lined with boiler-iron, is well known. That warning, by direction of

her husband, was written by Madame Althie Pontalba, and delivered by me.

That the destructive missiles were manufactured in Birmingham, England,

our Minister Plenipotentiary has good cause to remember; but that they

were smuggled into Paris in the guise of egg-plants, and deposited in

the grass-plot in rear of house No. 30 of that now memorable street, I

believe is still a mystery.

That Count Felice Orsini (the man executed) was concealed for weeks, is

on record at the Prefecture; but that he assumed the position of a

servant, and the name of Marcel, is not.

As for me, I think a great deal, and say nothing; but if the young

Pontalba, who now studies type-setting with the Prince Imperial, was not

the baby whose clothes I once saw examined at a _café_ there is no truth

in these "Leaves of an Idler."

MR. BUTTERBY RECORDS HIS CASE.[A]

J. Moses Butterby, aged 40 years; a licensed broker; nativity, American;

temperament, sanguine; habit, slightly obese; constitution, robust.

History of the case as related by himself.

* * * * *

I don't see how I ever came to _be_ married. It was certainly the last

thing my friends expected of me, and it was the last thing I ever

expected of myself; but that I am married, Mrs. J. Moses Butterby, and

Master Alphonso Moses Butterby, are both here to testify.

What so aristocratic a family found in me to admire is as much a secret

now as then. I don't think it was intellect; for I am afraid that when

Nature designed me the "shining" element was left out. Somehow, at

school, the composition sent to the village journal was never mine; the

declamation repeated at every fresh arrival of directors was always

another's; and if, by any chance, a visitor asked to hear a recitation,

under no circumstances was I ever invited to show off. My modest part

in society was not crowned with greater success. Ma (dear heart!)

objected to dancing, and I never learned; I didn't go to picnics, for I

don't know how to drive; I tried smoking, and it made me sick; if I

drank wine, I was sure to go to sleep: in fact, none of the amusements

of other young men ever amused me; and the result was, the money they

spent, I saved.

Envious people have hinted at this as the attraction which first caught

the respected mother of my Malinda Jane and the respected mother-in-law

of myself; but ideas so unbecoming I repel with proper scorn.

I do not think myself more stupid than the average of mankind; but,

somehow, while they walked through the middle of the streets, I sought

the narrow alleys; and while others aspired to noise and distinction, I

found retirement and Malinda Jane. (It _was_ in an alley I first met

Mrs. J. Moses Butterby--though this in no way concerns the present

narrative.)

Malinda Jane (I trust I am not violating any matrimonial law in thus

familiarly speaking of my respected helpmeet)--Malinda Jane, from the

first time I beheld her, up to the present period of a long, and I may

say intimate, acquaintance, appears to me a paragon of all the modest

and retiring virtues. If among her many attractions she is possessed of

a distinguishing trait, it lies in the power of her eyes. So much

language do their depths contain, that to me, at least, any other is in

a great measure a superfluity. I should be afraid to count up the

consecutive hours we have spent in this silent converse, reading each

other's hearts, as some pleasant poet has styled it, "through the

windows of the soul." I would not have you suppose them almond-shaped or

piercing. No! Malinda Jane's eyes are round. It was their gentle blue

that enchanted me; and there I found the congeniality that cheered my

drooping spirit.

Looking back now upon our courtship, I am inclined to think it must have

been uninteresting to a third party; but there is no denying the fact

that to us it was most soothing, and well calculated to develop our

mutual affection.

I have no accurate recollection of the event vulgarly called "popping."

Fortunately, I congratulate myself on escaping that breach of decorum.

If you join my friends in asking "how it came about," I reply,

"Naturally." The morning Malinda Jane's mother asked me if I had decided

upon October the 24th or November the 24th, I unhesitatingly answered,

"November the 24th, if you please;" and the whole affair was

accomplished.

I have said before, Malinda Jane is not of a demonstrative disposition,

but thinks (if I may strain a point) ponderously. I have never known her

to manifest any will in opposition to my own; and, since I come to think

of it, I do not remember her ever manifesting a will in opposition to

any one else. In this general term I of course include Master Moses

Alphonso Butterby and my most highly respected mother-in-law. Such a

family, according to all rule precedent, should be superlatively happy;

but there seems to be a disturbing element in all families, and mine,

alas! proved no exception. It came about thus.

Among the few parting words of my deceased ma were, "Mosie" (she always

called me Mosie), "never live with your mother-in-law." Treasuring the

command, as I may say I treasured everything the dear old lady left,

including the property, when finally the day _was_ fixed, I set about

obeying it. On an occasion when Mrs. Mountchessington Lawk--the name of

my respected mother-in-law--had described our imaginary bower, and her

imaginary apartment adjoining, until she had worked herself into a fever

of imaginary happiness, I mildly communicated the behest of my departed

parent.

The scene which followed I can only characterize as indescribably

touching. The look of blank despair on the face of Malinda Jane, and the

tears of rage and mortification that suffused the aristocratic nose of

her ma, I frankly confess, went to the bottom of my heart. It was many

months before I ceased to regret this rude banishment of their hopes;

but, looking upon it from my present stand-point, I am compelled to

admit my dear dead ma was right.

The only accident worthy of remark that happened to Malinda Jane on our

wedding-day was a fright. I have reason to congratulate myself at its

occurring _on_ that day, instead of a few weeks subsequent. The

consequences in the latter event, it is needless to say to married

people, might have been serious.

Passing out of the church-door, we were confronted by a drunken cobbler,

who, in a wild and insane manner, proposed "three cheers for Jinny." The

assembled crowd of dilapidated urchins hanging around the steps

proceeded to give them with a vim faintly suggestive of ridicule. The

single glance I obtained of the discourteous offender gave me an idea of

chimneys. His face was smoky, his clothes were fleecy, and his general

appearance was decidedly sooty throughout. A shock head, and more shocky

eyebrows, bore a strange resemblance to the patent chimney-sweep; while

his clothes seemed rich in past memories of the profession. I had before

caught sight of this individual, in a tumble-down, rickety shop near the

residence of Mrs. Mountchessington Lawk. I had, in fact, seen her on

more than one occasion bestowing charity upon him in the form of broken

victuals; but the recollection failed entirely to account for the effect

of his cheers for "Jinny" upon the too tender nerves of my dear wife and

her distinguished mother. I attributed the emotion to the trying nature

of the ceremony we had just passed through. Reflecting that people do

not get married every day, and appalled at the terrible conclusions

with which the mind would distract itself by pondering so alarming a

topic, I shudderingly abandoned it, and assisted Malinda Jane and her

ma, in a fainting condition, to the carriage.

It is needless to say that the cobbler was at once given in charge to a

policeman. The next morning, in consideration of a handsome fee, he

moved away. I accomplished this out of regard to the feelings of Mrs.

Lawk; but, I must confess, I never regretted anything more.

The commencement of married life (as many married men will bear me out)

is even more consoling than the happiest days of courtship. The smell of

varnish on new furniture is as delightfully novel as the odor of the

orange-blossoms; the brightness of the new carpets and the crispness of

the new curtains both mark an era,--even if the stove _is_ obstinate

about drawing or a man _is_ called out of bed to put up the coffee-mill.

There was Malinda Jane's night-robe hanging on one side of the bed, and

there was my night-robe on the other. My clothes were in the upper

drawer of the bureau, hers were in the lower--in such delightful and

loving proximity that I own to feeling a new man; I gloried in having

some one dependent on me: in short, I was happy.

I will not deny that there was some trouble about servants (I think

Malinda Jane had seven the first ten days). True, the meals were not

models of regularity; the chicken sometimes came on in too natural a

state,--blue and pulpy,--and the beefsteak betrayed a volcanic

appearance, as though reduced to lava by an irruption of gravy. I

remember one woman stole a keg of butter, and another went off with half

a dozen silver spoons. The former, Malinda Jane ascribed to the cat; the

latter, to a defective memory; but, then, Malinda Jane never learned

housekeeping (I don't see why she should, poor dear!), and trifles like

these failed to mar _our_ household peace.

I would mention the conduct of Mrs. Mountchessington Lawk as being, for

nearly a year, really saintly. Even the rare intervals at which she

visited were marked by a manner the reverse of familiar. Almost every

evening she would stand on the opposite side of the street, gazing

wistfully at us as we sat in the window; but no persuasion induced her

to pay a formal visit more than once a fortnight.

With this striking evidence of my wisdom before me, I grew worldly. I

think that during that short year I possessed a better opinion of myself

and my capacity than ever before or since.

Worse than this, I grew pharisaical. I ventured to pity my less

fortunate neighbors, bound hand and foot to the slavery of

mothers-in-law. I attempted to joke them, and poke them severely in the

ribs with my knuckles, when the magic name was mentioned. So often did

I congratulate myself on the shrewd stroke of genius displayed, that I

fear even her respectability became sadly impaired in my mind, and

depreciated to such an extent that I was gradually led to think of her

irreverently as an "old gal."

"Too much for you, old gal," got to be an exclamation so wonderfully

consoling that, it crept into my sleep, and in those halcyon days I

often waked up by the side of Malinda Jane, muttering the words, "Too

much for you, old gal." Waked up, I think I said. Ah! would I had never

waked up, particularly on the dismal clouds which for a season darkened

my domestic sunshine!

Scarce half a twelvemonth elapsed, ere the retiring disposition of

Malinda Jane seemed to shrink into even greater seclusion. I frequently

found her powerful mind wandering, and her eyes fixed on vacancy. In our

evening walks, which invariably preceded retiring for the night, she

leaned heavily on my arm.

Although the appearance of our daily repasts did not seem to justify it,

the cash demands for market-bills suddenly became enormous; and, when I

expostulated, my reasonable objections only produced tears. An

apparently needless grief had crept into our quiet home, and a lack of

confidence that pained me. For many weeks I helplessly pondered the

unaccountable mystery.

At last (oh that it had taken any shape but that!) the enigma developed

itself. Returning home one day, I had straightened my collar and

smoothed my hair before opening the door (feeling a proper pride in my

personal appearance, these preparations are usually a preliminary step),

when suddenly, just as the portal moved on its hinges, my sense of smell

was saluted with the odorous fumes of gin. From the first suffocating

whiff of this aromatic cordial do I date the commencement of my grief.

Malinda Jane, I knew, never indulged in as much as a sip of Cologne: so,

convinced that the breach of discipline was the guilty act of a servant,

with all the offended dignity I could embody in my deportment, I went

straight to the chamber of my wife.

Without being deficient in moral courage, I am not a boisterous man. I

do not boast of an eye like Mars, to threaten and command, or glory in

producing a shudder with the creaking of my shoes. I mention this to

show that my manner, though rebuking, was not intended to be severe. To

awe by my authority, and soothe by my condescension, was the design; but

even in this limited effort I am conscious of a lamentable failure.

Seated upon the floor, within an airy castle of dry-goods, whose

battlements of flannel and linen cambric frowningly encircled her, was

Malinda Jane. Before it, like an investing army, with colors flying, and

a face radiant with defiant triumph, was Mrs. Mountchessington Lawk.

She had complacently opened the siege with the mixture of a hot

gin-toddy. My appearance upon this warlike scene was the signal for a

salute both loud and watery (in short, tearful), entered into with a

mutual heartiness by besieger and besieged. It was, moreover, rendered

impressive by a waving spoon, which Mrs. Mountchessington Lawk moved

solemnly backward and forward in a warning, funereal manner, as though

protesting against some appalling fate. That she was in possession of my

apartment, if not my house, I instinctively realized. She sat bolt

upright, firm and strong as a Hindoo idol on its altar; a nebulous glare

invested her head with a halo, through which bristling hair-pins stuck

out in all directions, like lightning-rods with fitfully luminous

points. The crystal wall of spectacles that bridged her nose seemed

graven with the cabalistic words, "I've got you." A feeling of conscious

guilt, of what an enfeebled mind failed to grasp, succumbed to the

shock.

From amid the joint chorus of sobs and tears which burst forth with the

wail of a Scottish slogan or an Indian death-song, I heard--

"Oh, my poor darling! Oh, my poor dear angel! Oh, Mr. Butterby, how

_could_ you?"

"Madam," I inquired, in amazement, "how could I what?"

It may be well to state the endearing epithet was applied to Malinda

Jane.

"Oh, dear! dear! and all this time she has been scrimping and saving, I

was unconscious as a child unborn. Cruel, _cruel_ man!"

Mrs. Lawk, burying her hand in the depths of her pocket, drew forth an

attenuated handkerchief, and carefully wiped her eyes.

"Please, ma----" interrupted Malinda Jane.

"Never, _never_ again shall you leave my protecting wing. Oh, inhuman

monster, how _could_ you be so heartless?"

"Monster" was given with a decidedly unpleasant bite, and recalled my

calmness.

"Mrs. Mountchessington Lawk," I placidly observed, "I have not the

remotest idea what you are talking about."

"Moses Butterby, you're a brute."

She rose to her feet. A bundle, which, during the excitement, lay on her

lap, broke open; and my mother-in-law, like Cleopatra in her roses,

stood knee-deep in baby-clothes. In a moment the truth burst upon me. I

was unmanned, limp, and disjointed. The shock was too much! A baby

Butterby!

It is needless for me to remark to married men that the era of

prospective paternity is an era of sacrifice. Why, in this time-honored

custom, so much depends on one's mother-in-law, is a mystery I never

could unravel. I look upon it as one of the unaccountable fatalities of

man, to be placed in the category of grievances with prickly heat. Let

it not be understood that my conduct was absolutely lamb-like. It was

not until solemnly assured the visit would not be prolonged an

unnecessary hour that I finally yielded. I think during that time I had

a meaner opinion of my own importance than at any other period of my

life. My domestic career resembled that of a child guilty of an

irreparable wrong and tolerated only through dire necessity. Indeed, had

Mrs. Mountchessington Lawk been a modern Rachel, and I the ruthless

destroyer of her household, her conduct toward me could not have

exhibited more injured resignation. I somehow grew to _feel_ guilty, and

it was only at rare intervals I mustered courage to look either her or

Malinda Jane in the face.

The anticipated addition to the family brought an immediate addition to

our furniture. The way the chairs multiplied was marvelous, and the

number of sofas that accumulated in our parlor would have been

gratifying to a Grand Turk. We suddenly grew plethoric in wash-stands,

and appeared to possess armoires and bureaus in quantities and varieties

sufficient (as the advertisements say) to suit the most fastidious

taste. Even the bath-room did not seem to be neglected, and a modest

effort was made to furnish the back gallery. One day I was astonished to

find in the hall two hat-racks, and was nearly knocked down by the end

of a great four-post bedstead that followed me in. I turned on the

intruder, and discovered the little cobbler, apparently as much under

the influence of liquor as on the day of his previous eccentricity,

stupidly endeavoring to push one post in the door while the other bade

fair to thrust itself through the ventilator. It was then I learned that

in the array consisted the entire household treasures of Mrs.

Mountchessington Lawk.

I may here mention that the cobbler had contracted a chronic habit of

hanging around my back gate, but slunk away whenever I happened to

observe him.

Gradually (leaving out the patients) our house began to wear the aspect

of a hospital. The doctor made his appearance three times daily. An

aged, red-faced nurse, smelling strong of whisky, wandered about like a

disembodied spirit; and a lively young woman, her assistant, clattered

up and down stairs at all hours of the day and night. Had the entire

city concluded to multiply and replenish, the preparations could not

have been on a grander scale.

Of the exact particulars of the event, I fear I am not altogether clear.

I have an indistinct recollection of battling with a midnight

thunder-storm, in a hopeless search for our medical man, and that,

immediately on my return, that functionary (who had arrived during my

absence) dispatched me on an equally important errand.

I remember pulling a great many night-bells and arousing an unlimited

number of apothecaries; but the only act at all fresh in my recollection

was slinking in the back gate at three o'clock A.M. (I had been

locked out the front way), and finding the little cobbler, and a

surrounding crowd of damp newsboys, cheering lustily for "Jinny." The

cause of that commotion was also a mystery; but, when I entered the

house, Master Moses Alphonso Butterby feebly echoed their shout of

triumph.

Under different auspices, my paternal affection might have developed

rapidly; but really, during the first few weeks of Moses Alphonso's

existence, our intercourse was so exceedingly limited I scarcely knew

him. Any intrusion within his little horizon of flannel or atmosphere of

paregoric was so severe a tax on the nerves of Mrs. Lawk, that, out of

consideration for her feelings, I rather avoided it. Indeed, had it not

been for the activity of that eminently respectable lady, I would have

fancied Moses Alphonso a brother-in-law instead of a son.

Bolted in by flannel bandages, barred with a cambric shirt, locked up in

towels, imprisoned in petticoats, and finally incarcerated in a dungeon

of wrappers and shawls,--from the first he had the appearance of an

unhappy little convict. Mrs. Lawk invariably acted as chief jailer, and,

taking him into custody, changed his various places of confinement with

the austerity of a keeper of the Tower. My own position hourly became

more ambiguous; indeed, had it not been for the monthly bills, I would

have scarcely believed myself possessed of a house at all. I impatiently

awaited the promised evacuation; and when Moses Alphonso reached his

third birthday (babies have these interesting periods monthly instead of

annually) I ventured a hint that our own furniture was ample for all

requirements.

To my despair, Mrs. Lawk had rented her house. Malinda Jane's

confinement (which in my simplicity I imagined was of short duration),

it seemed, had been protracted from the day of her marriage.

Society was essential to her happiness; and society Mrs. Lawk was

determined she should have. If through her illness my privileges

experienced curtailment, her recovery brought annihilation itself.

Notwithstanding my piteous petition, we suddenly expanded into eminent

gentility.

I am dimly conscious that to many of our guests my introduction was to

Mrs. Lawk a poignant mortification. Most of them I never did know.

Several, however, seemed invited for my especial benefit; and this piece

of malignity will never cease to harrow.

How could _I_ talk to Miss Rose Buddington Violet, when she let down her

back hair and made eyes at the moon? _I_ had no back hair (in fact, none

at all to speak of), and scarcely knew there _was_ a moon.

When Mrs. Jesse Hennessee of Tennessee (whose husband is interested in

iron) persisted in making a blast-furnace of the kitchen stove, what

could I say?

There was Miss Aurelia Wallflower, who believed the world hollow, and

dolls stuffed with saw-dust, continually expatiating on the sufferings

of early Christians. _I_ have never read Fox's Book of Martyrs. With

Mrs. Lucretia McSimpkins I had some relief. She was fond of operatic

music, and, it is true, banged our piano out of tune at every

visit,--indeed, her efforts resembled a boiler-maker's establishment

under full headway; but, when she did subside, her perfect and

refreshing silence lasted for hours.

Malinda Jane, for whose amusement all this was designed, did not seem

more enthusiastic than myself. Most of her time was spent in a corner,

staring confusedly at the assembled company, and contemplating in silent

amazement the volubility of her respected parent.

In addition to toning down my exuberance with the softening influence of

ladies' society, Mrs. Lawk decided on a course of restriction. My

allowance of clean linen suddenly diminished one-half and under no

circumstances was I to presume to take a fresh pocket-handkerchief more

than once in two days. She changed the dinner-hour, and declared supper

(except for Malinda Jane, poor dear!) strictly prohibited. For a time I

mitigated the last grievance by eating oysters; but, an unlucky burst of

confidence having divulged the dissipation, a solemn lecture on my duty

to my family was its quietus. Every article of food was put under lock

and key, the night-latch was changed, and Mrs. Lawk, in addition to her

duties as jailer to Master Moses Alphonso, constituted herself turnkey

of the establishment. The parlor, except when we "received," was

declared forbidden ground: her dismay at finding my papers there, one

evening, was perfectly heart-rending. There was a sudden inquiry

concerning my loose change, and I was furnished with a memorandum-book

in which to write down my daily disbursements. Frequent visits to the

opera (oh, the torture of those evenings!) had been an invariable rule

with the Mountchessingtons; and, at the risk of rendering impotent the

tympanum of both ears, I was compelled to continue that respectable

custom. Persons occupying our position should be careful with whom they

associated; and the character of my companions underwent a severe

investigation. She even interfered with my business, and declared the

soap brokerage (one of my most lucrative departments) utterly beneath a

gentleman. One by one my little personal comforts faded away. Symptoms

of annoyance, persistently repeated, whenever I took off my coat or put

on my slippers, kept me at all times prepared for the streets. Cabbage

(a favorite dish) was quietly discarded from the dinner-table. My

library was turned into a nursery for Master B.

The mute, unresisting manner in which I surrendered my fading glory was

surprising. I was appalled in contemplating it; I am breathless now with

indignation in referring to it. In short, like Daniel and the Hebrew

children, I went up through much tribulation; but my deliverance (oh,

how I daily and hourly thank Divine Providence for that blessed moment!)

was at hand.

It was the evening of an election for an alderman, I think; but, as in

our retired portion of the city none but the lowest vagabonds gave

politics a thought, there was comparatively no excitement. Mrs. Lawk,

from the wide circle of society in which she moved, had invited a goodly

number to an entertainment. Even our inordinate supply of sofas were

filled, and scarcely a chair in the house remained unoccupied. In a rash

moment I asked two or three of my own cronies; but not many minutes

elapsed ere both my companions and myself were made to feel the folly of

the temerity.

Ignorant of dancing, unskilled in whist or the art of polite

conversation, we were terminating our third hour of judicious snubbing

in a corner. Mrs. McSimpkins had just concluded a battle-piece of great

length and power, when the rehearsal of our shuddering comments was

suddenly banished by the deafening roll of a drum. I rushed to the

window, and, to my horror, discovered a torchlight procession halted

immediately in front of the house. Perhaps a hundred men, in all stages

of political enthusiasm and intoxication, surrounded by a crowd of

wretched women and girls, waved their lights with demoniac frenzy, and,

apparently through a common throat, gurgled three hideous cheers. There

was a charge of Mrs. Lawk's friends to the windows, and then a stampede

to the back parlor. In vain I expostulated; idly I insisted on my utter

lack of interest in the questions of the day: the political party

_would_ come in, and how was I to prevent it? The absence of

embarrassment and amiable indifference to form that characterized the

intrusion was something unique. There was a difference in shape and mode

of wearing, about the hats, really refreshing, and a variety of quality

and nauseousness in the cigars everybody smoked, that, if anything,

added zest to the scene.

Boots unconscious of the existence of a door-mat speedily graced the

hall-floor with a perfect cushion of mud. Their wearers, rapidly

dividing into groups, plunged into earnest conversation concerning the

events of the day. The candid manner in which my own character was

discussed, and their frankness in touching on my peculiarities, was not

the least gratifying feature of the visit. In the course of two or three

minutes, one would have supposed my residence a political club-room, and

my uninvited guests in the peaceful enjoyment of their inalienable

rights.

At length there was a cry of "Here he is! here he is!"

Every window on the square went up, and the neighborhood suddenly

whitened with night-capped heads. I heard a crash of glass, and felt

convinced that this time the ventilator had gone for certain. There was

a fresh rush from the street, and, finally, seated on a shutter (borne

on the shoulders of four stout men) and complacently swinging his legs,

appeared the little cobbler. A radiant joy in his face, and a knowing

wink in his eye, told plainly the combined influence of triumph and

unlimited libation. Reeling profoundly to the assembled company, and

casting a drunken leer at Mrs. Lawk, he exclaimed, "Mary Ann,--'s--no

use, I'm--'s--good--as--he--is. I'm--an (hic)--an--Alderman.

Butterby--embrace--your poor ol'--father--'n--law."

Of the conclusion of this episode, I fear I am somewhat confused. I have

an indistinct recollection that Mrs. Lawk and Malinda Jane were both

carried off in a fainting condition; and that my enthusiastic friends

gave three rousing cheers for Alderman Lawk, and three more for me. I

remember my father-in-law insisted on holding a meeting then and there

and nominating me for Governor. His constituents considered the idea

most judicious, and warmly applauded it. Mrs. Lawk's friends disappeared

precipitately through the back way, amid renewed sounds of crashing

glass and breaking china, while I hovered around the unterrified

Democracy of the ---- ward, earnestly beseeching them to go into the

street. My efforts were at last crowned with success. I was left alone

amid the wreck of my household gods; but for an hour afterward, as I lay

cowering on the sofa, I could hear disconnected speeches from my

door-steps, encouraged from time to time with tremendous cheers for

Lawk, cheers for Butterby, and cheers for "Jinny." The same general

mystification and uncertainty regarding my actions pervaded the entire

night; but morning brought relief, and in more ways than one. Mrs. Lawk

had disappeared, and her chattels were following. The victory was as

sudden as it was unexpected.

Who would have thought that out of this storm of mortification was to

spring the bow of promise? The day after witnessed the exit of my most

respected mother-in-law and her amiable husband, for Cheyenne City; from

which place we have recently heard from them as ornamenting the first

Comanche and Blackfeet circles.

Her reason for concealing the relationship was never developed. Indeed,

I was too much overcome with joy ever to inquire. Undisturbed by

discordant elements, the fires of matrimonial affection burning as

brightly as when lighted upon my marriage morn, I now calmly survey the

re-establishment of a happy household, over which reign domestic bliss

and--Master Moses Alphonso Butterby.

* * * * *

Such is an accurate statement of the case, all of which is respectfully

submitted.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: For many useful hints in this diagnosis, Mr. Butterby is

indebted to Mr. E.C. Hancock, of New Orleans.]

DIAMONDS AND HEARTS.

A Sketch of Rio de Janeiro.

CHAPTER I.

The sun was setting on the Passeio Publico. On one side the fading light

gilded the delicate green of the palms, and on the other it shimmered on

the placid waters of the bay.

It whitened the little lodges, nestling in the luxuriance of foliage,

and glistened on the gaudy boats, lying motionless on the pearly bosom

of the deep. It sparkled on the little lakes where troops of joyous

children gathered around the swans, and lost itself in the blue mists

that circled the green and purple mountains in the distance.

Past the clustered giants of the sea, whose banners told of mighty

nations that made war, past the forts where the sentries kept weary pace

on the ramparts, it lighted up the "Pao de Assucar;" through the

crowded thoroughfares where the hum of traffic told of multitudes in

peace, it glowed on the Corcovado.

Far into the golden west, past the islands that dotted the harbor, past

the last villa of Sao Christovao, it burned and blazed among the

hills, until shadowy peaks, that seemed but ghosts in the dim

remoteness, burst resplendent on the view, gorgeous in their prodigality

of color.

Rio de Janeiro had mustered her children in crowds. Long and broad as

was the promenade, its marble mosaics scarce contained room for the

multitude. Anxious matrons, on one side, gathered on the granite stairs

to watch their children in the garden beneath; heedless youngsters, on

the other, hung over the balustrades for a view of the tide swelling at

the foot of the wall; fair young _donnas_, bewildered at the throng of

admirers, filled the air with peals of glad laughter; exquisite

_senhors_, thrilled by the music, yielded themselves willing captives to

the seductive influences of the hour.

Who but a Latin can understand the wild abandon of a _festa_? who but he

can enter into the spirit of the many fête-days sanctioned by his

ancient Church?

Armand Dupleisis, in his seat over the sea, stared absently at the

jocose revelers, for he was a stranger in a strange land. He leaned back

on the granite railings with the easy indolence of an invalid, though

his frame was robust and sinewy as a mountaineer's. The hidden power of

his bronzed and Moresque features, if developed, might inspire a certain

amount of wonder; but _then_ you would as readily have sought

expression in the statues below. His gaze was almost indifferent; yet

the unmoving eyes took a mental inventory of everything. Had their owner

been provided with a memorandum-book and a stubby pencil, the catalogue

could not have been more complete.

Among the hundreds present, those eyes picked out one man and one woman.

They followed them in their rambles through the dome-roofed shelters;

they scrutinized them as they lingered near the band; they searched them

out when mingled with the throngs on the promenade. They did not seem to

be watching, but they were; and their owner did not look interested, but

he was.

The man, physically speaking, was a marvel; but there was an air of

foppish elegance in his movements, and a silky kind of beauty, like that

of a leopard. His head was small, but finely formed, and covered with

flossy hair black as ebony. His features, though clearly cut, wore, from

their extreme delicacy, an almost feminine expression. His hands were

small and exquisitely shaped; his mustache curled gracefully from his

lip; and, when speaking, he bit the ends of it in a nervous, almost

embarrassed way.

The woman was a proud, passionate daughter of the sun. The brown blood

of the sun burned in her veins, and the soul of the sun streamed shaded

from her eyes. A sumptuous splendor mingled, moist and languid, with

their light. She was clothed in the sunlight. It glistened in the soft

darkness of her hair; it glowed in the rubies that clung to her swelling

throat; it flashed on her robe tremulous with radiance. From a

coquettish little hat a long white plume fluttered over her curls, and a

floating cloud of fleecy under-sleeve half concealed an arm of snowy

purity. Her life, though in its spring, seemed goldened with the flush

of summer; her morning flashed with the meridian luster of perfect day;

and yet the eyes that scanned so closely remained undazzled. Their owner

had heard of her, and of her conversation, sparkling with wit and humor

and mocking irony; but he was not fascinated. He saw but a woman for

whom no surprises appear to survive. What see we?

Were you to question the crowd, they would tell you the man was Edgar

Fay; that, years before, his father brought him, a velvet-coated boy, to

Rio de Janeiro; that shortly afterward he died, leaving the son and a

baby sister a small fortune; that the sister, being under the control of

a mother who had deserted her husband, was never heard of; and that the

guardians, finding no coheir, had spent the money on Edgar's education,

afterward securing him a position under the Imperial government.

About the woman they would say, "She is Mademoiselle Milan, just arrived

on the French packet, to fill an engagement as leading lady at the

_Alcasar_."

Concerning Dupleisis, except that he had arrived recently on the English

steamer, that he seemed to be a man of leisure, and paid promptly for

what he received, they could tell you nothing.

The glowing sunshine faded entirely out of the sky, the thick-walled

houses flickered faintly through their staring casements, the lamps on

the streets glimmered dismally at the returning crowds, and one by one

the lights began to quiver on the water. The Passeio, an hour before too

cramped for the multitude, was now deserted; but Dupleisis, nothing

daunted, smoked on. Disgusted at the necessity which compelled his

presence, and annoyed at the stupidity of the few people he had met, he

commented savagely on their peculiarities, and anathematized with

merciless ingenuity.

"Pshaw, M. Dupleisis! you are only angry because you cannot have

chicken-pie every day for dinner. What have the Brazilians done to you?"

Dupleisis gazed at the speaker in astonishment.

"Their impudence, rather than degeneracy, perhaps should surprise."

"Really, M. Dupleisis! I fear you are a cynic. In the gayest promenade

in the empire, you are filled with violence. You are a spoiled child

looking in at a shop-window and admiring nothing. Are you going to cry

with a mouth _full_ of sugar-plums?"

"Pardon me," said the Frenchman, haughtily, "but it is an awkward habit

of mine to feel curious concerning the _names_ of my associates."

"Let me hasten to enlighten you:--Percy Reed, diamond-dealer, Rua do

Ouvidor, at your service. You brought me a letter of introduction; but,

unluckily, I was out of town when you arrived."

The dark eyes glanced at the speaker closely as they had watched the man

and the woman. There was something in the face that commanded respect.

The broad high forehead, the eyes flashing with scornful mirth, and the

thin lips curling with such a whimsical mixture of kindliness and

sarcasm, bespoke a man of mind. Since reaching Rio, Dupleisis had

searched for these three, and he liked this one the best. Reed took out

his eye-glass, and, adjusting it carefully on his nose, surveyed

Dupleisis deliberately from head to foot.

"You'll do," he remarked, after some little thought; "but I still

believe that in your bread-and-butter days some friend thought you

sarcastic. I knew a young girl once who was told she had a musical

laugh, and the consequence was she giggled the rest of her life. Now, if

you don't wish to see us locked in here for the night, come along."